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AUTUMN: FROM THE JOURNAL
OF HENRY D. THOREAU.
EDITED BY H. G. O. BLAKE
" This world is no blot for us
Nor blank ; it means intensely and means good ;
To find its meaning is my meat and drink."
BROWNING, Fra Lippo TAppi.
" In the last stage of civilization, poetry, religion and philosophy will be
one, and there are glimpses of this truth in the first." — THOBEAU. December
17, 1837.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
1892
Copyright, 1892,
BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
All rights reserved.
The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.
PREFACE.
WITH the present volume, the four seasons, as
they are represented in Thoreau's journal, are
nominally completed, though but a part of the
Spring and Summer has been given, and much
has been omitted in all the four volumes printed.
As I have said before, my own interest in the
journal is in the character and genius of the
writer, rather than in any account of the phe
nomena of nature. According to Thoreau's own
view, such a journal is, in the strictest sense, an
autobiography. " Our thoughts," he says, " are
the epochs in our lives ; all else is but as a jour
nal of the winds that blew while we were here."
And again in this volume, under October 21,
1857, " Is not the poet bound to write his own
biography ? Is there any other work for him but
a good journal ? We do not wish to know how
his imaginary hero, but how he the actual hero,
lived from day to day." As the " Week on the
878
IV PREFACE.
Concord and Merrimack Rivers," though describ
ing a voyage very limited as to time and dis
tance, yet from its intermingling of thought with
loving observation and poetic description seems a
far-reaching journey, so these oft-repeated walks
and boating excursions in and about Concord, to
Fair Haven, the Cliffs, Conantum, etc., abound
in more genuine life, more of the true spirit of
travel, than the most varied adventures of ordi
nary travelers in distant lands. One may have
visited other continents, and yet never gone so
far.
In continuing to publish these volumes, I feel
sure of an eager and earnest company of read
ers, though not a very large one. I have also
the satisfaction of discharging a duty which
seemed to devolve upon me by inheritance,
thus making better known a life which has been
to me for so many years of the deepest interest,
which in the hurry and rush of our present civi
lization is certainly well worth attending to, a
life which, however partial, as every finite life
must be, points so clearly and steadily towards
the highest ideal. Here was a young man, with
a liberal education and little or no pecuniary
PREFACE. V
means, who on entering the world determined
not to throw obstacles in the way of his true
life by attempting to earn such a living and
such a position as the usages of society set be
fore him. The cheerful serenity which appears
in his writings, as it did in his manners and
conversation, shows how successful was this plan
for him, — how with simple wants and in ob
scurity he enjoyed the wealth of the world. He
knew early, with little experience, through the
intimations of his genius, how false the aims of
society are ; that real success is not in proportion
to the property and distinction one acquires, but
to the degree in which he finds heaven here upon
earth, though this idea was not expressed by
him in the language of religion. Many persons
talk in ' this way, listen approvingly to such
preaching, but fall in with the current. The
remarkable thing about this man is that though
not a church-goer, not caring for the institutions
of religion, he yet regarded it as the clear dic
tate of wisdom thus to make the most of life,
and acted upon his conviction. In view of
these things, the charge of egotism and selfish
ness will at once spring to the lips of many.
vi PEEFACE.
But probably few of us know better than he
did, that an unworthy self-regard is fatal to the
object he had in view.
" Renounce joy for my fellow's sake ? That 's joy
Beyond joy."
Though deeply interested and sometimes ac
tive in the cause of human freedom, he com
monly took little part in works of philanthropy
and reform. Had he done otherwise, we should
probably have lost from his character somewhat
of that strong personal element which, though
more quiet in its operation than associated
schemes of reform, is doubtless the most power
ful influence in the progress of mankind.
THE EDITOR.
AUTUMN.
September 21, 1854. I sometimes seem to
myself to owe all my little success, all for which
men commend me, to my vices. I am perhaps
more willful than others, and make enormous
sacrifices even of others' happiness, it may be, to
gain my own ends. It would seem as if nothing
good could be accomplished without some vice
to aid in it.
Sept. 21, 1859. Heard in the night a snap
ping sound, and the fall of some small body on
the floor from time to time. In the morning I
found it was produced by the witch-hazel nuts
on my desk springing open and casting their
seeds quite across my chamber, hard and stony
as these nuts were. For several days they are
shooting black seeds about my chamber. ... I
suspect that it is not when the witch-hazel nut
first gapes open that the seeds fly out, for I see
many, if not most of them, open first with the
seeds in them ; but when I release a seed, it be
ing still held by its base, it flies, as I have said.
2 AUTUMN.
I think that its slippery base is compressed by
the unyielding shell which at length expels it,
just as I can make one fly by pressing it, and
letting it slip from between my thumb and
finger. It appears to fit close to the shell at its
base, even after the shell gapes.
The ex-plenipotentiary refers in after speeches
with complacency to the time he spent abroad,
and the various lords and distinguished men he
met, as to a deed done, and an ever memora
ble occasion. Of what account are titles and
offices and opportunities, if you do no memora
ble deed?
Sept. 21, 1860. ... P.M. To Easterbrook
country. . . . The pods of the broom are nearly
half of them open. I perceive that one just ready
to open opens with a slight spring, on being
touched, and the pod curls a little. I suspect
that such seeds as these, which the winds do not
transport, will turn out to be more sought by the
birds, etc., and so transported by them, than
those lighter ones which are furnished with a
pappus, and so transported by the wind ; i. e.,
that those which the wind takes are less gener
ally the food of birds and quadrupeds than the
heavier and wingless seeds.
Sept. 22, 1852. . . . In love we impart each
to each, in subtlest, immaterial form of thought
or atmosphere, the best of ourselves, such as
AUTUMN. 3
commonly vanishes or evaporates in aspirations,
and mutually enrich each other. The lover alone
perceives and dwells in a certain human fra
grance. To him humanity is not only a flavor,
but an aroma and a flavor also.
Sept. 22, 1854. . . . p. M. Over Nawshaw-
tuck. The river is peculiarly smooth, and the
water clear and sunny, as I look from the stone
bridge. A painted tortoise, with his head out,
outside of the weeds, looks as if resting in the
air in that attitude, or suggests it, at an angle of
45°, with head and flippers outstretched. . . .
As I look off from the hilltop, I wonder if there
are any finer days in the year than these, the air
is so fine and bracing. The landscape has ac
quired some fresh verdure withal. The frosts
come to ripen the days like fruits, persimmons.
. . . Crossing the hill behind Minott's just as
the sun is preparing to dip below the horizon,
the thin haze in the atmosphere north and south
along the western horizon reflects a purple tinge,
and bathes the mountains with the same, like a
bloom on fruits. I wonder if this phenomenon
is observed in warmer weather, or before the
frosts have come. Is it not another evidence of
the ripe day ? I saw it yesterday. . . .
By moonlight all is simple. We are enabled
to erect ourselves, our minds, on account of the
fewness of objects. We are no longer distracted.
4 AUTUMN.
It is simple bread and water. It is simple as
the rudiments of an art, a lesson to be taken be
fore sunlight, perchance, to prepare us for that.
Sept. 22, 1858. A clear, cold day. . . .
Leave Salem for Cape Ann on foot. . . . One
mile southeast of the village of Manchester
struck the beach of "musical sand," just this
side of a large, high, rocky point called Eagle
Head ! This is a curving beach ; may be one
third of a mile long and some twelve rods wide.
We found the same kind of sand on a similar
but shorter beach on the east side of Eagle
Head. We first perceived the sound when we
scratched with an umbrella or the finger swiftly
and forcibly through the sand ; also still louder
when we struck forcibly with our heels, " scuf
fing " along. The wet or damp sand yielded no
peculiar sound, nor did that which lay loose and
deep next the bank, but only the more compact
and dry. The sound was not at all musical, nor
was it loud. Fishermen might walk over it all
their lives, as indeed they have done, without
noticing it. E , who had not heard it, was
about right when he said it was like that made
by rubbing wet glass with your finger. I
thought it as much like the sound made in wax
ing a table as anything. It was a squeaking
sound, as of one particle rubbing on another. I
should say it was merely the result of the fric-
AUTUMN. 5
tion of peculiarly formed and constituted parti
cles. The surf was high and made a great noise,
yet I could hear the sound made by my com
panion's feet two or three rods distant, and if it
had been still, probably could have heard it five
or six rods.
Sept. 22, 1860. . . . Some of the early bot
anists, like Gerard, were prompted and com
pelled to describe their plants, but most now
adays only measure them, as it were. The
former is affected by what he sees, and so in
spired to portray it ; the latter merely fills out a
schedule prepared for him, makes a description
pour servir. I am constantly assisted by the
books in identifying a particular plant and
learning some of its humbler uses, but I rarely
read a sentence in a botany which reminds me
of flowers or living plants. Very few, indeed,
write as if they had seen the thing which they
pretend to describe.
Sept. 23, 1855. 8 p. M. I hear from my
chamber a screech-owl about Monroe's house,
this bright moonlight night, — a loud, piercing
scream, much like the whinner of a colt, per
haps, a rapid trill, then subdued or smothered, a
note or two.
Sept. 23, 1859. . . . What an array of non-
producers society produces ! . . . Many think
themselves well employed as charitable dispens-
6 AUTUMN.
ers of wealth which somebody else earned, and
these who produce nothing, being of the most
luxurious habits, are precisely they who want
the most, and complain loudest when they do not
get what they want. They who are literally
paupers, maintained at the public expense, are
the most importunate and insatiable beggars.
They cling like the glutton to a living man and
suck his vitals up. To any locomotive man
there are three or four deadheads clinging,
as if they conferred a great favor on society
by living upon it. Meanwhile, they fill the
churches, and die and revive from time to time.
They have nothing to do but sin and repent of
their sins. How can you expect such blood
suckers to be happy?
Not only foul and poisonous weeds grow in
our tracks, but our vileness and luxuriance
make simple, wholesome plants rank and weed-
like. All that I ever got a premium for was a
monstrous squash, so coarse that nobody could
eat it. Some of these bad qualities will be found
to lurk in the pears that are invented in the
neighborhood of great towns. " The evil that
men do lives after them." The corn and pota
toes produced by excessive manuring may be
said to have not only a coarse, but a poisonous
quality. . . . What creatures is the grain raised
in the cornfields of Waterloo for, unless it be
AUTUMN. 1
for such as prey upon men ? Who cuts the
grass in the graveyard ? I can detect the site
of the shanties that have stood all along the
railroad by the ranker vegetation. I do not go
there for delicate wild flowers. It is important,
then, that we should air our lives by removals,
excursions into the fields and woods. Starve
your vices. Do not sit so long over any cellar
hole as to tempt your neighbor to bid for the
privilege of digging saltpetre there. So live
that only the most beautiful wild flowers will
spring up where you have dwelt, harebells, vio
lets, and blue-eyed grass.
Sept. 23, 1860. ... I hear that a large owl,
probably a cat-owl, killed and carried off a full-
grown turkey in Carlisle, a few days ago.
Sept. 24, 1851 8 A. M. To Lee's Bridge
via Conantum. It is a cool and windy morning,
and I have donned a thick overcoat for a walk.
The wind is from the north, so that the tele
graph harp does not sound where I cross. . . .
This windy, autumnal weather is very exciting
and bracing, clear and cold after the rain of yes
terday, it having cleared off in the night. . . .
The river washes up stream before the wind,
with white streaks of foam on its dark surface
diagonally to its course, showing the direction
of the wind. Its surface, reflecting the sun, is
dazzlingly bright. The outlines of the hills are
8 AUTUMN.
remarkably distinct and fine, and their surfaces
bare and hard, not clothed with a thick air. I
notice one red tree, a red maple, against the
woodside in Conant's meadow. It is a far
brighter red than the blossoms of any tree in
summer, and more conspicuous. The huckle
berry bushes on Conantum are all turned red.
What can be handsomer for a picture than
our river scenery now! First this smoothly
shorn meadow on the west side of the stream,
looking from Conantum Cliff, with all the
swaths distinct, sprinkled with apple-trees cast
ing heavy shadows, black as ink, such as can be
seen only in this clear air, this strong light, one
cow wandering restlessly about in it, and low
ing ; then the blue river, scarcely darker than,
and hardly to be distinguished from, the sky,
its waves driven southward or up stream by the
wind, making it to appear to flow that way,
bordered by willows and button bushes ; then
the narrow meadow beyond, with varied lights
and shades from its waving grass, which for
some reason has not been cut this year, though
so dry, now at length each grass-blade bending
south before the wintry blast, as if looking for
aid in that direction ; then the hill, rising sixty
feet to a terrace-like plain, covered with shrub
oaks, maples, etc., now variously tinted, clad all
in a livery of gay colors, each bush a feather in
AUTUMN. 9
its cap ; and further in the rear, the wood-
crowned cliff, some two hundred feet high,
where gray rocks here and there project from
amidst the bushes, with its orchard on the
slope ; and to the right of the cliff the distant
Lincoln hills in the horizon; the landscape so
handsomely colored, the air so clear and whole
some, and the surface of the earth so pleasingly
varied that it seems rarely fitted for the abode
of man.
Sept. 24, 1858. [Salem.] . . . Saw at the
East India Marine Hall a Bay lynx killed in
Danvers July 21st (I think in 1827) ; an
other killed in Lynnfield in March, 1832.
These skins were now, at any rate, quite light,
dirty whitish, or white wolfish color, with small
pale brown spots. The animals much larger
than I expected. Saw a large fossil turtle,
some twenty inches in diameter, with the plates
distinct, in a slate-colored stone from western
New York ; also a sword in its scabbard, found
in the road near Concord, April 19, 1775, and
supposed to have belonged to a British officer.
Sept. 24, 1859. P. M. To Melvin's Preserve.
... I have many affairs to attend to, and feel
hurried these days. Great works of art have
endless leisure for a background, as the universe
has space. Time stands still while they are
created. The artist cannot be in a hurry. The
10 AUTUMN.
earth moves round the sun with inconceivable
rapidity, and yet the surface of the lake is not
ruffled by it. It is not by compromise, it is not
by a timid and feeble repentance, that a man will
save his soul, and live at last. He must conquer
a clear field, letting Repentance & Co. go, that
well-meaning but weak firm that has assumed
the debts of an old and worthless one. You
are to fight in a field where no allowances will
be made, no courteous bowing to one-handed
knights. You are expected to do your duty, not
in spite of every thing but one, but in spite of
every thing. . . .
Going along this old Carlisle road — road for
walkers, for berry-pickers, and no more worldly
travelers ; road for Melvin and Clark, not for the
sheriff, nor butcher, nor the baker's jingling
cart; road where all wild things and fruits
abound, where there are countless rocks to jar
those who venture in wagons ; road which leads
to and through a great but not famous garden,
zoological and botanical, at whose gate you never
arrive, — as I was going along there, I perceived
the grateful scent of the Dicksonia fern now
partly decayed. It reminds me of all up coun
try, with its springy mountain sides and unex
hausted vigor. Is there any essence of Dick
sonia fern, I wonder? Surely that giant who
my neighbor expects is to bound up the Alle-
AUTUMN. 11
ghanies will have his handkerchief scented with
that. The sweet fragrance of decay ! When I
wade through by narrow cow-paths, it is as if I
had strayed into an ancient and decayed herb
garden. Nature perfumes her garments with
this essence now especially. She gives it to
those who go a-barberrying and on dank au
tumnal walks. The very scent of it, if you
have a decayed frond in your chamber, will take
you far up country in a twinkling. You would
think you had gone after the cows there, or were
lost on the mountains. It is the scent the earth
yielded in the saurian period, before man was
created and fell, before milk and water were in
vented, and the mints. Rana sylvatica passed
judgment on it, or rather that peculiarly scented
Rana palustris. It was in his reign it was in
troduced.
A man must attend to nature closely for many
years to know when, as well as where, to look
for his objects, since he must always anticipate
her a little. Young men have not learned the
phases of nature. They do not know what con
stitutes a year, or that one year is like another.
I would know when in the year to expect certain
thoughts and moods, as the sportsman knows
when to look for plover. .
Though you may have sauntered near to
heaven's gate, when at length you return toward
12 AUTUMN.
the village you give up the enterprise a little,
and you begin to fall into the old ruts of thought,
like a regular roadster. Your thoughts very
properly fail to report themselves to headquar
ters. They turn toward night and the evening
mail, and become begrimed with dust, as if you
were just going to put up at (with ?) the tavern,
or had even come to make an exchange with a
brother clergyman on the morrow.
That old Carlisle road, which leaves towns be
hind ; where you put off worldly thoughts ; where
you do not carry a watch nor remember the pro
prietor ; where the proprietor is the only tres
passer, looking after his apples, the only one who
mistakes his calling there, whose title is not
good ; where fifty may be a-barberrying, and you
do not see one. It is an endless succession of
glades where the barberries grow thickest, suc
cessive yards amid the barberry bushes where you
do not see out. There I see Melvin and the
robins, and many a nut-brown maid. The lonely
horse in its pasture is glad to see company, comes
forward to be noticed, and takes an apple from
your hand. Others are called great roads, but
this is greater than they all. It is only laid
out, offered to walkers, not accepted by the
town and the traveling jvorld ; to be represented
by a dotted line on charts, not indicated by
guideboards, undiscoverable by the uninitiated,
that it may be wild to a warm imagination.
AUTUMN. 13
Nature, the earth herself, is the only panacea.
They bury poisoned sheep up to the neck in
earth to take the poison out of them.
Sept. 25, 1840. Birds were very naturally
made the subject of augury, for they are but
borderers upon the earth, creatures of another
and more ethereal element than our existence
can be supported in, which seem to flit between
us and the unexplored.
Prosperity is no field for heroism unless it
endeavor to establish an independent and super
natural prosperity for itself. In the midst of
din and tumult and disorder we hear the trum
pet sound. Defeat is heaven's success. We
cannot be said to succeed to whom the world
shows any favor. In fact, it is the hero's point
d'appui, which, by offering resistance to his
action, enables him to act at all. At each step
he spurns the world. He vaults the higher in
proportion as he employs the greater resistance
of the earth. It is fatal when an elevation has
been gained by too wide a concession, retaining
no point of resistance ; for the hero, like the
aeronaut, must float at the mercy of the winds,
or cannot sail and steer himself for calm weather.
When we rise to the step above, we tread hard
est on the step below.
My friend must be my tent companion.
Sept. 25, 1851. I am astonished to find how
14 AUTUMN.
much travelers both in the east and west per
mit themselves to be imposed on by a name ; that
the traveler in the east, for instance, presumes
so great a difference between one Asiatic and
another, because one bears the title of Christian,
and the other not. At length he comes to a sect
of Christians, Armenians or Nestorians, predi
cates of them a far greater civilization, civility,
and humanity than of their neighbors, I suspect
not with much truth. At that distance, and
therefore impartially viewed, I see but little
difference between a Christian and a Mahometan,
and thus I perceive that European and Ameri
can Christians are precisely like these heathen
ish Armenian and Nestorian Christians ; not
Christians, of course, in any true sense, but one
other heathenish sect in the west, the difference
between whose religion and that of the Mahom
etans is very slight and unimportant. That
nation is not Christian where the principles of
humanity do not prevail, but the prejudice of
race. I expect the Christian not to be super
stitious, but to be distinguished by the clearness
of his knowledge, the strength of his faith, the
breadth of his humanity. A man of another
race, an African, for instance, comes to Amer
ica to travel through it, and he meets with treat
ment exactly similar to or worse than that which
the American meets with among the Turks,
AUTUMN. 15
Arabs, and Tartars. The traveler in both cases
finds the religion to be a mere superstition and
frenzy or rabidness.
Examined a hornets' nest suspended from
contiguous huckleberry bushes. The tops of
the bushes appearing to grow out of it, little
leafy sprigs, had a pleasing effect. It was an
inverted cone, eight or nine inches by seven
or eight. I found no hornets buzzing about it.
Its entrance appeared to have been enlarged, so
I concluded it had been deserted, but, looking
nearer, I discovered two or three dead hornets,
men of war, in the entry way. Cutting off the
bushes which sustained it, I proceeded to open
it with my knife. First there were half a dozen
layers of waved brownish paper resting loosely
on one another, occupying nearly an inch in
thickness, for a covering. Within were the six-
sided cells in three stories, suspended from the
roof and from one another by one or two suspen
sion rods only, the lower story much smaller
than the rest ; and in what may be called the
attic of the structure were two live hornets,
appearing partially benumbed with cold, but
which in the sun seemed rapidly recovering
themselves. Most of the cells were empty, but
in some were young hornets still, their heads
projecting, apparently still-born, perhaps over
taken unexpectedly by cold weather. These
16 AUTUMN.
insects appear to be very sensible to cold. The
inner circles were of whitish, the outer of gray
ish, paper.
In these cooler, windier, crystal days, the note
of the jay sounds a little more native. Stand
ing on the cliffs, I see them flitting and scream
ing from pine to pine beneath. Hawks, too, I
perceive, sailing about in the clear air, looking
white against the green pines, like the seeds of
the milkweed. There is almost always a pair of
hawks. Their shrill scream „ and that of the
owls and wolves are related to each other.
Sept. 25, 1852. The scarlet of the dogwood
is the most conspicuous and interesting of the
autumnal colors at present. You can now
easily detect them at a distance. Every one in
the swamps you have overlooked is revealed.
The smooth sumach and the mountain ash are a
darker, deeper, bloodier red. Found the fringed
gentian November 7th last year.
Sept. 25, 1854. I suspect that I know on
what the brilliancy of the autumnal tints will
depend. On the greater or less drought of the
summer. If the drought has been uncommonly
severe, as this year, I should think it would so
far destroy the vitality of the leaf that it would
attain only to a dull, dead color in autumn ; that
to become brilliant in autumn, the plant should
be full of sap and vigor to the last.
AUTUMN. 17
Do I see a Fringilla hiemalis in the Deep
Cut ? It is a month earlier than last year.
I am detained by the very bright red black
berry leaves strewn along the sod, the vine be
ing inconspicuous. How they spot it !
On the shrub oak plain as seen from the Cliffs,
the red at least balances the green. It looks
like a rich, shaggy rug now, before the woods
are changed.
There was a splendid sunset while I was on
the water, beginning at the Clamshell reach.
All the lower edge of a very broad dark slate
cloud, which reached backward almost to the
zenith, was lit up through and through with a
dun golden fire, the sun being below the hori
zon, like a furze plain densely on fire a short
distance above the horizon. There was a clear
pale robin 's-egg sky beneath, and some little
clouds, on which the light fell, high in the sky,
but nearer, seen against the upper part of the
distant, uniform, dark slate one, were of a fine
grayish silver color, with fine mother-of-pearl
tints, unusual at sunset (?). The furze gradually
burnt out on the lower edge of the cloud,
changed into a smooth, hard, pale pink ver
milion, which gradually faded into a gray, sat
iny pearl, a fine Quaker color. All these colors
were prolonged in the rippled reflection to five
or six times their proper length. The effect
18 AUTUMN.
was particularly remarkable in the case of the
reds, which were long bands of red perpendicu
lar in the water.
Sept. 25, 1855. In the evening went to
Welch's (?) circus with C . Approaching,
I perceived the peculiar scent which belongs to
such places, a certain sourness in the air, sug
gesting trodden grass and cigar smoke. The
curves of the great tent, at least eight or ten
rods in diameter, the main central curve, and
wherever it rested on a post, suggested that the
tent was the origin of much of the Oriental
architecture, — the Arabic, perhaps. There was
the pagoda in perfection. It is remarkable
what graceful attitudes feats of strength and
agility seem to require.
Sept. 25, 1859. p. M. To Emerson's Cliff.
Holding a white pine needle in my hand and
turning it in a favorable light as I sit upon this
cliff, I perceive that each of its three edges is
notched or serrated with minut^ forward-point
ing bristles. So much does nature avoid an
unbroken line that even this slender leaf is
serrated, though, to my surprise, neither Gray
nor Bigelow mentions it. Loudon, however,
says, " Scabrous and inconspicuously serrated in
the margin ; spreading in summer, but in whiter
contracted, and lying close to the branches."
Fine and smooth as it looks, it is serrated, after
AUTUMN. 19
all. This is its concealed wildness, by which
it connects with the wilder oaks.
Sept. 26, 1840. The day, for the most part,
is heroic only when it breaks.
Every author writes in the faith that his book
is to be the final resting-place, and sets up his
fixtures as for a more than Oriental permanence ;
but it is only a caravansary, which we soon leave
without ceremony. We read on his sign only
refreshment for man and beast, and a drawn
hand directs to Ispahan or Bagdad.
Sept. 26, 1852. Dreamed of purity last night.
The thoughts seemed not to originate with me,
but I was invested, my thought was tinged by
another's thought. It was not I that originated,
but I that entertained the thought. P. M. To
Ministerial Swamp. The small cottony leaves
of fragrant everlasting in the fields for some
time, protected, as it were, by a little web of
cotton against frost and snow; a little dense
web of cotton spun over it, entangled in it, as if
to restrain it from rising higher.
The increasing scarlet and yellow tints around
the meadows and river remind me of the
opening of a vast flower bud. They are the
petals of its corolla, which are of the width of
the valleys. It is the flower of autumn, whose
expanding bud just begins to blush. As yet,
however, in the forest there are very few
changes of foliage.
20 AUTUMN.
The Polygonum articulatum, giving a rosy
tinge to Jenny's desert, is very interesting now,
with its slender dense racemes of rose-tinted
flowers, apparently without leaves, rising cleanly
out of the sand. It looks warm and brave, a
foot or more high, and mingled with deciduous
blue curls. It is much divided into many-
spreading, slender-racemed branches, with in
conspicuous linear leaves, reminding me, both
by its form and its colors, of a peach orchard in
blossom, especially when the sunlight falls on
it ; minute rose-tinted flowers that brave the
frosts, and advance the summer into fall, warm
ing with their color sandy hillsides and deserts,
like the glow of evening reflected on the sand ;
apparently all flower and no leaf. Rising appar
ently with clean bare stems from the sand, it
spreads out into this graceful head of slender
rosy racemes, wisp-like. This little desert of
less than an acre blushes with it.
The tree fern is in fruit now, with its delicate
tendril-like fruit, climbing three or four feet
over the asters, golden-rods, etc., on the edge of
the swamp. The large ferns are yellow or
brown now. Larks, like robins, fly in flocks.
Succory in bloom; ... it bears the frost well,
though we have not had much.
Sept. 26, 1854. It is a warm and very plea
sant afternoon. I walk along the river-side in
AUTUMN. 21
Merrick's pasture. Some single red maples are
very splendid now ; the whole tree bright scarlet
against the cold green pines, while very few trees
are changed, is a most remarkable object in the
landscape, seen a mile off. It is too fair to be
believed, especially seen against the light. Some
are a reddish or else greenish yellow, others with
red or yellow cheeks. I suspect that the yellow
maples had not scarlet blossoms.
Sept. 26, 1857. P. M. Up river to Clam
shell. These are warm, serene, bright autumn
afternoons. I see far off the various - colored
gowns of cranberry pickers against the green
of the meadow. The river stands a little way
over the grass again, and the summer is over.
The pickerel weed is brown, and I see muskrat
houses. I see a large black cricket on the river,
a rod from shore, and a fish is leaping at it. As
long as the fish leaps it is motionless, as if dead ;
but as soon as it feels my paddle under it, it is
lively enough. I sit on Clamshell bank and
look over the meadows. Hundreds of crickets
have fallen into a sandy gully, and now are
incessantly striving to creep or leap up again on
the sliding sand, out of this dusty road into
those bare solitudes which they inhabit ; such
their business this September afternoon.
I watch a marsh hawk circling low along the
edge of the meadow, looking for a frog, and
now at last it alights to rest on a tussock.
22 AUTUMN,
Coming home, the sun is intolerably warm on
my left cheek. I perceive it is because the heat
of the reflected sun, which is as bright as the
real one, is added to that of the real one, for
when I cover the reflection with my hand the
1 heat is less intense.
That cricket seemed to know that if he lay
quietly spread out on the surface, either the
fishes would not suspect him to be an insect, or,
if they tried to swallow him, would not be able.
What blundering fellows these crickets are,
both large and small ! They are not only tum
bling into the river all along shore, but into
this sandy gully, to escape from which is a Sisy
phus labor. I have not sat there many minutes,
watching two foraging crickets which have de
cided to climb up two tall and slender weeds
almost bare of branches, as a man shins up a
liberty pole sometimes, when I find that one has
climbed to the summit of my knee. They are
incessantly running about on the sunny bank.
Their still larger cousins, the mole crickets, are
creaking loudly and incessantly all along the
shore. Others have eaten themselves cavern
ous apartments, sitting-room and pantry at once,
in windfall apples.
Speaking to Rice of that cricket's escape, he
said that he once, with several others, saw a
small striped snake swim across a piece of water
AUTUMN. 23
about half a rod wide to a half-grown bull-frog
which sat on the opposite shore, and attempt to
seize him, but he found that he had caught a
Tartar, for the bull-frog, seeing him coming, was
not afraid of him, but at once seized his head in
his mouth and closed his jaws upon it, and he
thus held the snake a considerable time before
the latter was able, by struggling, to get away.
When that cricket felt my oar he leaped without
the least hesitation, or perhaps consideration,
trusting to fall in a pleasanter place. He was
evidently trusting to drift against some weed
which should afford him a point d'appui.
Sept. 26, 1858. I observe that the seeds of
the Panicum sanguinale smdjiliforme are per
haps half fallen, evidently affected by the late
frosts as chestnuts, etc., will be by later ones ;
and now is the time, too, when flocks of sparrows
begin to scour over the weedy fields, especially
in the morning. I fancy they are attracted to
some extent by this thin harvest of panic seed.
The spikes of Panicum crus-galli also are par
tially bare. Evidently the small graminivorous
birds abound more after these seeds are ripe.
The seeds of the pigweed are yet apparently
quite green. May be they are somewhat pecu
liar for hanging on all winter.
Sept. 26, 1859. To Clamshell by boat. The
Solanum Dulcamara berries are another kind
24 AUTUMN.
which grows in drooping clusters. I do not know
any clusters more graceful and beautiful than
these drooping cymes of scarlet or translucent,
cherry-colored elliptical berries, with steel-blue
or lead-colored (?) purple pedicels (not pedun
cles) like the leaves on the tips of the branches.
No berries, I think, are so well spaced and
agreeably arranged in their drooping cymes,
somewhat hexagonally, like a honeycomb. Then
what a variety of color ! The peduncle and its
branches are green, the pedicels and sepals only
that rare steel-blue purple, and the berries a
clear, translucent cherry-red. They hang more
gracefully over the river's brim than any pend
ant in a lady's ear. Yet they are considered
poisonous ; not to look at, surely. Is it not a re
proach that so much that is beautiful is poison
ous to us ? But why should they not be poi
sonous ? Would it not be bad taste to eat these
berries which are ready to feed another sense ?
Sept. 27, 1852. p. M. To C. Smith's Hill.
The flashing clearness of the atmosphere. More
light appears to be reflected from the earth, less
absorbed.
At Saw Mill Brook many finely cut and flat
ferns are faded whitish and very handsome, as if
pressed ; very delicate.
The touch-me-not seed vessels go off like
pistols, shoot their seeds off like bullets. They
explode in my hat.
AUTUMN. 25
The arum berries are now in perfection, —
cone-shaped spikes one and a half inches long,
of scarlet or vermilion-colored, irregular, some
what pear-shaped berries springing from a pur
plish core. They are exactly the color of bright
sealing-wax, on club-shaped peduncles. The
changed leaves are delicately white, especially
beneath. Here and there lies prostrate on the
damp leaves or ground this conspicuous red
spike. The medeola berries are common now,
and the large red berries of the panicled Solo
mon's seal.
It must have been a turtle-dove that eyed me
so near, turned its head sidewise to me for a
fair view, looking with a St. Vitus twitching of
its neck, as if to recover its balance on an un
stable perch. That is their way.
From Smith's Hill I looked toward the moun
tain line. Who can believe that the mountain
peak which he beholds fifty miles off in the
horizon, rising far and faintly blue above an in
termediate range, while he stands on his trivial
native hills or in the dusty highway, can be the
same as that which he looked up at once near at
hand from a gorge in the midst of primitive
woods ! For a part of two days we traveled
across lots, loitering by the way, through primi
tive woods and swamps, over the highest peak
of the Peterboro' Hills to Monadnock, by ways
26 AUTUMN.
from which all landlords and stage-drivers en
deavored to dissuade us. It was not a month
ago. But now that I look across the globe in
an instant to that dim Monadnock peak, and
these familiar fields and copse-woods appear to
occupy the greater part of the interval, I cannot
realize that Joe Evely's house still stands there
at the base of the mountain, and that I made
the long tramp through the woods with invigor
ating scents before I got to it. I cannot real
ize that on the tops of those cool blue ridges
are berries in abundance still, bluer than them
selves, as if they borrowed their blueness from
their locality. From the mountains we do not
discern our native hills, but from our native hills
we look out easily to the far blue mountain which
seems to preside over them. As I look north
westward to that summit from a Concord corn
field, how little can I realize all the life that is
passing between me and it, the retired up-country
farmhouses, the lonely mills, wooded vales, wild
rocky pastures, new clearings on stark moun
tain sides, and rivers murmuring through primi
tive woods. I see the very peak, — there can be
no mistake, — but how much I do not see that is
between me and it ! In this way we see stars.
What is it but a faint blue cloud, a mist that
may vanish ! But what is it, on the other hand,
to one who has traveled to it day after day, has
AUTUMN. 27
threaded the forest and climbed the hills that
are between this and that, has tasted the rasp
berries and the blueberries that grow on it
and the springs that gush from it, has been
wearied with climbing its rocky sides, felt the
coolness of its summit, and been lost in the
clouds there.
When I could sit in a cold chamber, muffled
in a cloak, each evening till Thanksgiving time,
warmed by my own thoughts, the world was not
so much with me.
Sept. 27, 1855. Yesterday I traced the note of
what I have falsely thought the liana palustris,
or cricket frog, to its true source. As usual it
sounded loud and incessant above all ordinary
crickets, and led me at once to a bare and soft
sandy shore. After long looking and listening,
with my head directly over the spot from which
the sound still came at intervals, as I had often
done before, I concluded, as no creature was vis
ible, that it must issue from the mud, or rather
slimy sand. I noticed that the shore near the
water was upheaved and cracked as by a small
mole track, and, laying it open with my hand,
I found a mole cricket, Gryllotalpa breviformis.
Harris says their burrows " usually terminate
beneath a stone or clod of turf." They live on
the roots of grass and other vegetables, and in
Europe the corresponding species does a great
28 AUTUMN.
deal of harm. They " avoid the light of day,
and are active chiefly during the night ; " have
their burrows " in moist and soft ground, partic
ularly about ponds." "There are no house
crickets in America." Among crickets, " the
males only are musical." The " shrilling " is
produced by shuffling their wing coverts to
gether lengthwise. The French call crickets
cri-cri. Most of them die on the approach of
winter, but a few survive under stones.
See furrows made by many clams now moving
into deep water.
Some single red maples now fairly make a
show along the meadow. I see a blaze of red
reflected from the troubled water.
Sept. 27, 1856. The bluebird family revisit
their box and warble as in spring.
p. M. To Clamshell by boat. It is a very
fine afternoon to be on the water, somewhat In
dian-summer-like. I do not know what consti
tutes the peculiarity and charm of this weather ;
the broad water so smooth notwithstanding the
slight wind, as if owing to some oiliness the wind
slid over without rippling it. There is a slight
coolness in the air, yet the sun is occasionally
very warm. I am tempted to say that the air
is singularly clear, yet I see it is quite hazy.
Perhaps there is that transparency it is said to
possess when full of moisture, before or after
AUTUMN. 29
rain. Through this I see the trees beginning to
put on their October colors, and the creak of
the mole cricket sounds late along the shore.
The Aster multiflorus may be easily con
founded with the' Aster tradescanti. Like it, it
whitens the roadside in some places. It has
purplish disks, but a less straggling top than
the tradescanti.
Sept. 27, 1857. How out of all proportion
to the value of an idea, when you come to one,
in Hindoo literature for instance, is the histori
cal fact about it, the when, where, etc., it was
actually expressed, and what precisely it might
signify to a sect of worshipers ! Anything that
is called history of India or of the world is im
pertinent beside any real poetry or inspired
thought which is dateless.
White birches have fairly begun to yellow,
and blackberry vines here and there in sunny
places look like a streak of blood in the grass.
I sit on the hillside at Miles's Swamp. A wood
bine, investing the leading stem of an elm in the
swamp quite to its top, is seen as an erect, slen
der red column through the thin and yellowing
foliage of the elm. As I sit there, I see the
shadow of a hawk flying above and behind me.
I think I see more hawks nowadays. Perhaps
it is both because the young are grown, and
their food, the small birds, are flying in flocks
30 AUTUMN.
and are abundant. I need only sit still a few
minutes on any spot which overlooks the river
meadows before I see some black circling mote
beating along the meadow's edge, now lost for a
moment as it turns edgewise in a peculiar light,
now reappearing farther or nearer.
It is most natural, i. e., most in accordance
with the natural phenomena, to suppose that
North America was discovered from the northern
part of the eastern continent, for a study of the
range of plants, birds, and quadrupeds points to
a connection on that side. Many birds are com
mon to the northern parts of both continents.
Even the passenger pigeon has flown across
there ; and some European plants have been de
tected on the extreme northeastern coast and
islands, which do not extend inland. Men in
their migrations obey the same law.
Sept. 27, 1860. Sawing up my raft by river.
Monroe's tame ducks sail along and feed near
me, as I am working there. Looking up, I see
a little dipper, about one half their size, in the
middle of the river, evidently attracted by these
tame ducks as to a place of security. I sit down
and watch it. The tame ducks have paddled
four or five rods down stream along the shore.
They soon detect the dipper three or four rods
off, and betray alarm by a twittering note, espe
cially when it dives, as it does continually. At
AUTUMN. 31
last, when it is two or three rods off, and ap
proaching them by diving, they all rush to the
shore and come out upon it in their fear ; but
the dipper shows itself close to the shore, and
when they enter the water again joins them
within two feet, still diving from time to time,
and threatening to come up in their midst.
They return up stream more or less alarmed,
and pursued in this wise by the dipper, who
does not know what to make of their fears. It
is thus toled along to within twenty feet of
where I sit, and I can watch it at my leisure.
It has a dark bill, and considerable white on the
sides of the head or neck with black between,
no tufts, and no observable white on back or tail.
When at last disturbed by me, it suddenly sinks
low (all its body) in the water without diving.
Thus it can float at various heights. So, on the
30th, I saw one suddenly dash along the surface
from the meadow ten rods before me to the mid
dle of the river, and then dive, and though I
watched fifteen minutes and examined the tufts
of grass, I could see no more of it.
Sept. 28, 1840. The world thinks it knows
only what it comes in contact with, and whose
repelling points give it a configuration to the
senses ; a hard crust aids its distinct knowledge.
But what we truly know has no points of repul
sion, and consequently no objective form, being
32 AUTUMN.
surveyed from within. We are acquainted with
the soul and its phenomena as a bird with the
air in which it floats. Distinction is superficial
and formal merely. We touch objects as the
earth we stand on, but the soul as the air we
breathe. We know the world superficially, but
the soul centrally. In the one case our surfaces
meet, in the other our centres coincide.
Sept. 28, 1851. Hugh Miller, in his " Old
Red Sandstone," speaking of " the consistency
of style which obtains among the ichthyolites of
this formation " and the " microscopic beauty
of these ancient fishes," says : " The artist who
sculptured the cherry-stone consigned it to a
cabinet, and placed a microscope beside it ; the
microscopic beauty of these ancient fishes was
consigned to the twilight depths of a primeval
ocean. There is a feeling which at times grows
upon the painter and the statuary, as if the per
ception and love of the beautiful had been sub
limed into a kind of moral sense. Art comes to
be pursued for its own sake : the exquisite con
ception in the mind or the elegant and elaborate
model becomes all in all to the worker, and the
dread of criticism or the appetite for praise al
most nothing ; and thus, through the influence of
a power somewhat akin to conscience, but whose
province is not the just and the good, but the
fair, the refined, the exquisite, have works, pros-
AUTUMN. 33
ecuted in solitude, and never intended for the
world, been found fraught with loveliness." The
hesitation with which this is said, to say no
thing of its simplicity, betrays a latent infidel
ity, more fatal far than that of the " Vestiges of
Creation " which in another work this author en
deavors to correct. He describes that as an ex
ception which is in fact the rule. The supposed
want of harmony between " the perception and
love of the beautiful " and a delicate moral sense
betrays what kind of beauty the writer has been
conversant with. He speaks of his work becom
ing all in all to the worker in rising above the
dread of criticism and the appetite of praise, as
if these were the very rare exceptions in a great
artist's life, and not the very definition of it.
2 p. M. To Conantum. For a week or ten
days I have ceased to look for new flowers or
carry my Botany in my pocket. The fall dan
delion is now very fresh and abundant, in its
prime.
This swamp [the spruce swamp in Conant's
Grove] contains beautiful specimens of the side
saddle flower, Sarracenia purpurea, better
called pitcher plant. The leaves ray out around
the dry scape and flower, which still remain, rest
ing on rich uneven beds of a coarse reddish
moss, through which the small-flowered androm-
eda puts up, presenting altogether a most rich
34 AUTUMN.
and luxuriant appearance to the eye. Though
the moss is comparatively dry, I cannot walk
without upsetting the numerous pitchers, which
are now full of water, and so wetting my feet.
I once accidentally sat down on such a bed of
pitcher plants, and found an uncommonly wet
seat where I expected a dry one. These leaves
are of various colors, from plain green to a rich
striped yellow or deep red. No plants are more
richly painted and streaked than the inside of
the broad lips of these. Old Josselyn called this
" hollow-leaved lavender." I think we have no
other plant so singular and remarkable.
Here was a large hornets' nest which, when I
went to take, first knocking on it to see if any
body was at home, out came the whole swarm
upon me, lively enough. I do not know why
they should linger longer than their fellows
whom I saw the other day, unless because the
swamp is warmer. They were all within, but
not working.
What honest, homely, earth-loving, unaspiring
houses people used to live in ! — that on Conan-
tum, for instance, so low you can put your hand
on the eaves behind. There are few whose pride
could stoop to enter such a house to-day. And
then the broad chimney, built for comfort, not
for beauty, with no coping of bricks to catch the
eye, no alto or basso relievo.
AUTUMN. 35
Sept. 28, 1852. p. M. To the Boulder Field.
I find the hood-leaved violet quite abundant in a
meadow, and the pedata in the Boulder Field.
Those now seen, aU but the blanda, palmata, and
pubescens, blooming again. Bluebirds, robins,
etc., are heard again in the air. This is the
commencement, then, of the second spring. Vio
lets, Potentilla Canadensis, lambkill, wild rose,
yellow lily, etc., begin again.
A windy day. What have these high and
roaring winds to do with the fall? No doubt
they speak plainly enough to the sap that is in
these trees, and perchance check its upward flow.
Ah, if I could put into words that music
which I hear ; that music which can bring tears
to the eyes of marble statues, to which the very
muscles of men are obedient!
^ Sept. 28, 1858. P. M. To Great Fields via
Gentian Lane. The gentian (Andrewsi%) now
generally in prime, on low, moist, shady banks.
Its transcendent blue shows best in the shade
and suggests coolness ; contrasts there with the
fresh green ; a splendid blue, light in the shade,
turning to purple with age. They are particu
larly abundant under the north side of the wil
low row in Merrick's pasture. I count fifteen
m a single cluster there, and afterward twenty
in Gentian Lane near Flint's Bridge, and there
were other clusters below ; bluer than the bluest
36 AUTUMN.
sky, they lurk in the moist and shady recesses of
the banks.
/Sept. 28, 1859. In proportion as a man has
a poor ear for music, or loses his ear for it, he
is obliged to go far for it, or fetch it from far,
or pay a great price for such as he can hear.
Operas and the like only affect him. It is like
the difference between a young and healthy
appetite and the appetite of an epicure, an appe
tite for a sweet crust and for a mock-turtle soup.
As the lion is said to lie in a thicket or in tall
reeds and grass by day, slumbering, and sally
out at night, just so with the cat. She will en
sconce herself for the day in the grass or weeds
in some out-of-the-way nook near the house, and
arouse herself toward night.
Sept. 29, 1840. Wisdom is a sort of mo.ngrel
between Instinct and Prudence, which, however,
inclining to the side of the father, will finally
assert its pure blood again, as the white race at
length prevails over the black. It is minister
plenipotentiary from earth to heaven, but occa
sionally Instinct, like a born celestial, comes to
earth and adjusts the controversy.
All fair action in man is the product of
enthusiasm. There is enthusiasm in the sunset.
The shell on the shore takes new layers and new
tints from year to year with such rapture as the
bard writes his poem. There is a thrill in the
AUTUMN. 37
spring when it buds and blossoms. There is a
happiness in the summer, a contentedness in the
autumn, a patient repose in the winter. All the
birds and blossoms and fruits are the product
of enthusiasm. Nature does nothing in the prose
mood, though she acts sometimes grimly, with
poetic fury, as in earthquakes, etc., and at other
times humorously.
Sept. 29, 1851. The intense brilliancy of
the red -ripe maples scattered here and there
in the midst of the green oaks and hickories
on the hilly shore of Walden is quite charming.
They are unexpectedly and incredibly brilliant,
especially on the western shore and close to
the water's edge, where, alternating with yellow
birches and poplars and green oaks, they remind
me of a line of soldiers, redcoats and riflemen
in green mixed together.
The pine is one of the richest of trees, to my
eye. It stands like a great moss, a luxuriant
mildew, the pumpkin pine, which the earth pro
duces without effort.
Sept. 29, 1853. The witch-hazel at Lee's Cliff,
in a favorable situation, has but begun to blos
som, has not been long out, so that I think it
must be later than the gentian. Its leaves are
yellowed. Bluets [Houstonia] still. Lambkill
blossoms again.
Sept. 29, 1854. When I look at the stars,
38 AUTUMN.
nothing which the astronomers have said at
taches to them, they are so simple and remote.
Their knowledge is felt to be all terrestrial, and
to concern the earth alone. This suggests that
the same is the case with every object, however
familiar ; our so-called knowledge of it is equally
vulgar and remote. One might say that all
views through a telescope or microscope were
purely visionary, for it is only by his eye, and
not by any other sense, not by the whole man,
that the beholder is there where he is presumed
to be. It is a disruptive mode of viewing so far
as the beholder is concerned.
Sept. 29, 1856. p. M. To Grape Cliff. I can
hardly clamber along this cliff without getting
my clothes covered with desmodium ticks, these
especially, the rotundifolium and paniculatum.
Though you were running for your life, they
would have time to catch and cling to your
clothes, often the whole row of pods of the Des
modium paniculatum, like a piece of saw-blade
with three teeth. They will even cling to your
hand as you go by. They cling like babes to a
mother's breast, by instinct. Instead of being
caught ourselves and detained by bird-lime, we
are compelled to catch these seeds and carry
them with us. These almost invisible nets, as it
were, are spread for us, and whole coveys of
desmodium and bid ens seeds steal transporta-
AUTUMN. 39
tion out of us. I have found myself often cov
ered, as it were, with an imbricated coat of the
brown desmodium seeds or a bristling chevaux-
de-frise of beggar ticks, and had to spend a
quarter of an hour or more picking them off in
some convenient spot ; and so they get just what
they wanted, deposited in another place. How
surely the desmodium growing on some rough
cliff-side, or the bidens on the edge of a pool,
prophesy the coming of the traveler, brute or
human, that will transport their seeds on his
coat!
Dr. Reynolds told me the other day of a Can
ada lynx (?) killed in Andover, in a swamp,
some years ago, when he was teaching school in
Tewksbury, thought to be one of a pair, the
other being killed or seen in Derry. Its large
track was seen in the snow in Tewksbury, and
traced to Andover and back. They saw where
it had leaped thirty feet, and where it devoured
rabbits. It was on a tree whjen shot.
Sept. 29, 1859. Juniper repens berries are
quite green yet. I see some of last year's dark
purple ones at the base of the branchlets. There
is a very large specimen on the side of Fair
Haven Hill, above Cardinal shore. It is very
handsome this bright afternoon, especially if you
stand on the lower and sunny side, on account
of the various ways in which its surging flakes
40 AUTUMN.
and leaflets, green or silvery, reflect the light.
It is as if we were giants and looked down on
an evergreen forest from whose flaky surface
the light is variously reflected. Though so
low, it is so dense and rigid that neither men
nor cows think of wading through it. We got
a bird's-eye view of this evergreen forest, as of
a hawk sailing over, looking into its inapproach
able clefts and recesses, reflecting a green or
else a cheerful silvery light.
Having just dug my potatoes in the garden,
which did not turn out very well, I took a bas
ket and trowel and went forth to dig my wild
potatoes, or ground nuts, by the railroad fence.
I dug up the tubers of some half a dozen plants,
and found an unexpected yield. One string
weighed a little more than three quarters of a
pound. There were thirteen that I should have
put with the large potatoes this year, if they
had been the common kind. The biggest was
two and three quarters inches long, and seven
inches in circumference the smallest way. Five
would have been called good-sized potatoes. It
is but a slender vine, now killed by the frost,
and not promising such a yield ; but deep in the
soil, here sand, five or six inches, or sometimes
a foot, you come to the string of brown and
commonly knobby nuts. The cuticle of the
tuber is more or less cracked longitudinally,
AUTUMN. 41
forming meridional furrows, and the root or
shoot bears a large proportion to the tuber. In
case of a famine I should soon resort to these
roots. If they increased in size, on being cul
tivated, as much as the common potato, they
would become monstrous.
Sept. 30, 1851. The white ash has got its
autumnal mulberry hue. What is the autumnal
tint of the black ash? The former contrasts
strongly with the other shade trees on the vil
lage street, the elms and buttonwoods, at this
season, looking almost black at the first glance.
The different characters of the trees appear
better now, when their leaves, so to speak, are
ripe, than at any other season ; than in the win
ter, for instance, when they are little remarka
ble, and almost uniformly gray or brown, or in
the spring and summer, when they are undistin-
guishably green. Now, a red maple, an ash, a
white birch, a Populus grandidentata, etc., is
distinguished almost as far as it is visible. It
is with leaves as with fruits and woods, animals
and men : when they are mature, their different
characters appear.
Sept. 30, 1852. 10 A. M. To Fair Haven
Pond, bee-hunting, — Pratt, Rice, Hastings, and
myself in a wagon. A fine, clear day after the
coolest night and severest frost we have had.
Our apparatus was first a simple round tin box,
42 AUTUMN.
about four and a half inches in diameter and
one and a half inches deep, containing a piece
of empty honeycomb of its own size and form,
filling it within one third of an inch of the
top ; then a wooden box, about two and a half
inches square, with a glass window occupying
two thirds of the upper side under a slide, with
a couple of narrow slits in the wood, each side
of the glass, to admit air, but too narrow for
the bees to pass, the whole resting on a circular
bottom a little larger than the lid of the tin
box, with a sliding door in it. We were ear
nest to go this week, before the flowers were
gone, and we feared the frosty night might
make the bees slow to come forth. . . . After
eating our lunch we set out on our return [hav
ing been unsuccessful thus far]. By the road
side at Walden, on the sunny hillside sloping
to the pond, we saw a large mass of golden-rod
and aster, several rods square and comparatively
fresh. Getting out of our wagon, we found it to
be resounding with the hum of bees. It was
about one o'clock. Here were far more flow
ers than we had seen elsewhere, and bees in
great numbers, both bumble-bees and honey
bees, as well as butterflies, wasps, and flies. So
pouring a mixture of honey and water into the
empty comb in the tin box, and holding the lid
of the tin box in one hand and the wooden box
AUTUMN. 43
with the slides shut in the other, we proceeded
to catch the honey-bees by shutting them in
suddenly between the lid of the tin box and the
large circular bottom of the wooden one, cutting
off the flower stem with the edge of the lid
at the same time. Then holding the lid still
against the wooden box, we drew the slide in
the bottom, and also the slide covering the win
dow at the top, that the light might attract the
bee to pass up into the wooden box. As soon
as he had done so, and was buzzing against the
glass, the lower side was closed, and more bees
were caught in the same way. Then placing
the open tin box close under the wooden one,
the slide was drawn again, and the upper slide
closed, making it dark, and in about a min
ute they went to feeding, as was ascertained
by raising slightly the wooden box. Then the
latter was wholly removed, and they were left
feeding or sucking up the honey in broad day
light. In from two to three minutes one had
loaded himself and commenced leaving the box.
He would buzz round it back and forth a foot
or more, and then sometimes, perhaps, finding
that he was too heavily loaded, alight to empty
himself or clear his feet. Then, starting once
more, he would circle round irregularly at first,
in a small circle, only a foot or two in diameter,
as if to examine the premises, that he might
44 AUTUMN.
know them again, till at length, rising higher
and higher, and circling wider and wider, and
swifter and swifter, till his orbit was ten or
twelve feet in diameter, and as much from the
ground, though its centre might be moved to
one side (all this as if to ascertain the course to
his nest), in a minute or less from his first start
ing, he darted off in a bee line, a waving or sinu
ous line right and left, toward his nest ; that is,
as far as I could see him, which might be eight
or ten rods, looking against the sky. You had
to follow his whole career very attentively in
deed, to see when and where he went off at a
tangent. It was very difficult to follow him,
especially if you looked against a wood or the
hill, and you had to lie low to fetch him against
the sky. You must operate in an open place,
not in a wood. We sent forth as many as a
dozen bees, which flew in about three directions,
but all toward the village, or where we knew
there were hives. They did not fly almost
straight, as I had heard, but within three or four
feet of the same course, for half a dozen rods, or
as far as we could see. Those belonging to one
hive all had to digress to get round an apple-
tree. As none flew in the right direction for us,
we did not attempt to line them. In less than
half an hour the first returned to the box, which
was lying on a woodpile. Not one of the bees
AUTUMN. 45
in the surrounding flowers had discovered it.
So they came back one after another, loaded
themselves and departed. But now they went
off with very little preliminary circling, as if
assured of their course. We were furnished with
little boxes of red, blue, green, yellow, and white
paint in dry powder, and with a stick we sprin
kled a little of the red powder on the back of one
while he was feeding, gave him a little dab, and
it settled down amid the fuzz of his back, and
gave him a distinct red jacket. He went off
like most of them toward some hives about three
quarters of a mile distant, and we observed, by
the watch, the time of his departure. In just
twenty-two minutes red jacket came back, with
enough of the powder still on his back to mark
him plainly. He may have gone more than
three quarters of a mile. At any rate, he had
a head wind to contend with while laden. They
fly swiftly and surely to their nests, never resting
by the way, and I was surprised, though I had
been informed of it, at the distance to which
the village bees go for flowers. The rambler in
the most remote woods and pastures little thinks
that the bees which are humming so industri
ously on the rare wild flowers he is plucking for
the herbarium in some out-of-the-way nook, are,
like himself, ramblers from the village, perhaps
from his own yard, come to get their honey for
46 AUTUMN.
his hives. All the honey-bees we saw were on
the blue-stemmed golden-rod, Solidago ccesia,
which lasts long and which emitted a sweet,
agreeable fragrance, not on the asters. I feel
the richer for this experience. It taught me
that even the insects in my path are not loafers,
but have their special errands, not merely and
vaguely in this world, but in this hour each is
about his business. If there are any sweet flow
ers still lingering on the hillsides, it is known
to the bees, both of the forest and the village.
The botanist should make interest with the bees
if he would know when the flowers open and
when they close. Those above named were the
only common and prevailing flowers on which to
look for them. Our red jacket had performed
the voyage in safety. No bird had picked him
up. Are the kingbirds gone? Now is the
time to hunt bees and take them up, when their
combs are full of honey, and before the flowers
are so scarce that they begin to consume the
honey they have stored. Forty pounds of honey
was the most our company had got hereabouts.
We also caught and sent forth a bumble-bee
which manoeuvred like the others, though we
thought he took time to eat some before he
loaded himself, and then he was so overloaded
and bedaubed that he had to alight after he had
started, and it took him several minutes to clear
AUTUMN. 47
himself. It is not in vain that the flowers
bloom, and bloom late, too, in favored spots.
To us they are a culture and a luxury, but to
bees meat and drink. The tiny bee which we
thought lived far away there in a flower-bell, in
that remote vale, is a great voyager, and anon
he rises up over the top of the wood, and sets
sail with his sweet cargo straight for his distant
haven. How well they know the woods and
fields, and the haunt of every flower ! The
flowers are widely dispersed, perhaps because
the sweet which they collect from the atmos
phere is rare and also widely dispersed, and
the bees are enabled to travel far to find it,
a precious burden which the heavens bear and
deposit on the earth.
Sept. 30, 1858. A large flock of grackles
amid the willows by the river-side, or chiefly
concealed low in the button bushes beneath
them, though quite near me. There they keep
up their spluttering notes, though somewhat less
loud, I fancy, than in spring. These are the
first I have seen, and now for some time I think
the redwings have been gone. These are the
first arrivers from the north, where they breed.
I observe the peculiar steel-bluish purple of
the night-shade, i. <?., the tips of the twigs, while
till beneath is green, dotted with bright berries
over the water. Perhaps this is the most sin-
48 AUTUMN.
gular among the autumnal tints. It is almost
black in some lights, distinctly steel-blue in the
shade, contrasting with the green beneath ; but
seen against the sun, it is a rich purple, its veins
full of fire. The form of the leaf is peculiar.
The pearly everlasting is an interesting white
at present. Though the stem and leaves are
still green, it is dry and unwithering like an
artificial flower ; its white flexuous stem and
branches, too, like wire wound with cotton.
Neither is there any scent to betray it. Its
amaranthine quality is instead of high color.
Its very brown centre now affects me as a
fresh and original color. It monopolizes small
circles in the midst of sweet fern, perchance, on
a dry hillside.
In our late walk on the Cape [Ann], we
entered Gloucester each time in the dark at
mid-evening, traveling partly across lots till we
fell into the road, and as we were simply seek
ing a bed, inquiring the way of villagers whom
we could not see. The town seemed far more
home-like to us than when we made our way
out of it in the morning. It was comparatively
still, and the inhabitants were sensibly or poeti
cally employed, too. Then we went straight
to our chamber, and saw the moonlight reflected
from the smooth harbor and lighting up the
fishing-vessels, as if it had been the harbor of
AUTUMN. 49
Venice. By day we went remarking on the
peculiar angles of the beveled roofs, of which
there is a remarkable variety there. There
are also many large square three-story houses,
with short windows in the upper story, as if
the third story were as good as a gig for re
spectability. When entering the town by moon
light, we could not always tell whether the
road skirted the back yards or the front yards
of the houses, and the houses did not so imper
tinently stare after the traveler and watch his
coming as by day. Walking early in the day
and approaching the rocky shore from the north,
the shadows of the cliffs were very distinct and
grateful, and our spirits were buoyant. Though
we walked all day, it seemed the days were not
long enough to get tired in. Some villages we
went through or by, without communicating
with any inhabitant, but saw them as quietly
and distantly as in a picture.
Oct. 1, 1851. 5 P. M. Just put a fugitive
slave, who has taken the name of Henry Wil
liams, into the cars for Canada. He escaped
from Stafford County, Virginia, to Boston last
October. Has been in Shadrack's place at the
Cornhill Coffee House ; had been correspond
ing through an agent with his master, who is
his father, about buying himself, his master
asking $600, but he having been able to raise
50 AUTUMN.
but $500 ; heard that there were writs out for
two Williamses, fugitives, and was informed by
his fellow-servants and employer that Auger-
hole Burns and others of the police had called
for 'him when he was out. Accordingly he fled
to Concord last night on foot, bringing a letter
to our family from Mr. Lovejoy, of Cambridge,
and another which Garrison had formerly given
him on another occasion. He lodged with us
and waited in the house till funds were collected
with which to forward him. Intended to dis
patch him at noon through to Burlington, but
when I went to buy his ticket saw one at the
station who looked and behaved so much like a
Boston policeman that I did not venture that
time. He was an intelligent and very well be
haved man, a mulatto ; said he could guide him
self by many other stars than the north star,
knowing their rising and setting. They steered
for the north star even when it appeared to have
got round to the south. They frequently fol
lowed the telegraph when there was no railroad.
Oct. 1, 1856. Examined an Asdepias Cor-
nuti pod, already opening. As they dry, the
pods crack open by the seam along their convex
or outer side, revealing the seeds with their silky
parachutes, closely packed in an imbricated
manner, already right side up, to the number in
one instance of 134, as I counted, and again
AUTUMN. 51
270. As they lie, they resemble somewhat a
round plump fish, with the silk ends exposed at
the tail. Children call them fishes. The silk
is divided once or twice by the raised partition
of the spongy core around which they are ar
ranged. At the top of some more open and
drier is already a little clump of loosened seeds
and down two or three inches in diameter, held
by the converging tips of the down, like meridi
ans, and just ready to float away when the wind
rises.
I do not perceive the poetic and dramatic
capabilities of an anecdote or story which is told
me, its significance, till some time afterwards.
One of the qualities of a pregnant fact is that it
does not surprise us, and we only perceive after
wards how interesting it is, and then must know
all the particulars. We do not enjoy poetry
fully unless we know it to be poetry.
Oct. 1, 1858. Let a full-grown but young
cock stand near you. How full of life he is from
the tip of his bill through his trembling wattles
and comb and his bright eye to the extremity of
his clean toes ! How alert and restless, listening
to every sound and watching every motion I
How various his notes, from the finest and shrill
est alarum, as a hawk sails over, surpassing the
most accomplished violinist on the short strings,
to a hoarse and terrene voice or cluck ! He has a
52 AUTUMN.
word for every occasion ; for the dog that rushes
past, and Partlet cackling in the barn. And
then, how, elevating himself and flapping his
wings, he gathers impetus and air, and launches
forth that world - renowned and ear -piercing
strain ; not a vulgar note of defiance, but the
mere effervescence of life, like the bursting of
bubbles in a wine vat. Is any gem so bright
as his eye ?
The cat sleeps on her head ! What does that
portend? It is more alarming than a dozen
comets. How long prejudice survives! The
big-bodied fisherman asks me doubtingly about
the comet seen these nights in the northwest —
if there is any danger to be apprehended from
that side. I would fain suggest that only he is
dangerous to himself.
Oct. 1, 1860. Remarkable frost and ice this
morning ; quite a wintry prospect. The leaves
of trees stiff and white at 7 A. M. I hear it was
21° + this morning early. I do not remember
such cold at this season. One man tells me he
regretted that he had not taken his mittens with
him when he went to his morning's work, mow
ing in a meadow, and when he went to a spring,
at 11 A. M., found the dipper with two inches of
ice in it frozen solid.
Oct. 2, 1851. P. M. Some of the white
pines on Fair Haven Hill have just reached the
AUTUMN. 53
acme of their fall ; others have almost entirely
shed their leaves. The same is the state of the
pitch pines.
Oct. 2, 1852. The beggar ticks, bidens, now
adhere to my clothes. I also find the desmo-
dium sooner thus — as a magnet discovers the
steel filings in a heap of ashes — than if I used
my eyes alone.
How much more beautiful the lakes now, like
Fair Haven, surrounded by the autumn-tinted
woods and hills, as in an ornamental frame !
Some maples in sprout lands are of a delicate,
clear, unspotted red inclining to crimson, sur
passing most flowers. I would fain pluck the
whole tree and carry it home for a nosegay.
Oct. 2, 1856. Succory still, with its cool
blue, here and there, and Hieracium Canadense
still quite fresh, with its pretty, broad, strap-
shaped rays, broadest at the end, alternately
long and short, with five very regular sharp
teeth in the end of each. The scarlet leaves
and stem of the rhexia, some time out of flower,
make almost as bright a patch in the meadow
now as the flowers did. Its seed vessels are per
fect little cream pitchers of graceful form.
The prinos berries are in their prime, seven
sixteenths of an inch in diameter. They are
scarlet, somewhat lighter than the arum berries.
They are now very fresh and bright, and what
54 AUTUMN.
adds to their effect is the perfect freshness and
greenness of the leaves amid which they are
seen. Gerardia purpurea still. Solidago spe-
ciosa completely out, though not a flower was
out September 27th, or five days ago ; say three
or four days. Now and then I see a Hypericum
Canadense flower still. The leaves of this and
the angalosam are turned crimson.
I am amused to see four little Irish boys, only
five or six years old, getting a horse in a pas
ture, for their father apparently, who is at work
in a neighboring field. They have, all in a row,
got hold of a very long halter, and are leading
him. All wish to have a hand in it. It is sur
prising that he obeys such small specimens of
humanity, but he seems to be very docile, a real
family horse. At length, by dint of pulling
and shouting, they get him into a run down a
hill, and though he moves very deliberately,
scarcely faster than a walk, all but the one at
the end of the line soon run to right and left,
without having looked behind, expecting him to
be upon them. They stop at last at the bars,
which are down, and then the family puppy,
a brown pointer (?), about two thirds grown,
comes bounding to join them and assist. He is
as youthful and about as knowing as any of
them. The horse marches gravely behind, obey
ing the faint tug at the halter, or honestly stands
AUTUMN. 55
still from time to time, as if not aware that they
are pulling at all, though they are all together
straining every nerve to start him. It is inter
esting to behold the faithful beast, the oldest and
wisest of the company, thus implicitly obeying
the lead of the youngest and weakest.
Corydalis still fresh.
Oct. 2, 1857. Generally speaking, it is only
the lower edge of the woods that now shows the
bright autumnal tints, while the superstructure
is green, the birches, very young oaks and hick
ories, huckleberry bushes, blueberries, etc., that
stand around the edges, though here and there
some taller maple flames upward amid the masses
of green, or some other riper and mellower tree.
The chief incidents of Minott's life must be
more distinct and interesting now than imme
diately after they occurred, for he has recalled
and related them so often that they are stereo
typed in his mind. Never having traveled far
from his hillside, he does not suspect himself,
but tells his stories with fidelity and gusto to
the minutest details, as Herodotus does in his
histories.
Oct. 3, 1840. No man has imagined what
private discourse his members have with sur
rounding nature, or how much the tenor of that
intercourse affects his own health and sickness.
While the head goes star-gazing, the legs are not
56 AUTUMN.
necessarily astronomers, too, but are acquiring
independent experience in lower strata of nature.
How much do they feel which they do not im
part ! How much rumor dies between the knees
and the ears ! Surely instinct was this experi
ence. I am no more a freeman of my members
than of universal nature. After all, the body
takes care of itself. It eats, drinks, sleeps, di
gests, grows, dies, and the best economy is to let
it alone in all these.
Why need I travel to seek a site, and consult
the points of the compass ? My eyes are south
windows, and out of these I command a south
ern prospect. The eye does the least drudgery
of any of the senses. It oftenest escapes to a
higher employment. The rest serve and escort
and defend it. I attach some superiority, even
priority, to this sense. It is the oldest servant
in the soul's household ; it images what it im
agines, it ideates what it idealizes. Through it
idolatry crept in, which is a kind of religion. If
any joy or grief is to be expressed, the eye is
the swift runner that carries the news. In cir
cumspection, double, in fidelity, single, it serves
truth always, and carries no false news. Of five
castes, it is the Brahmin. It converses with the
heavens. How man serves this sense more than
any other ! When he builds a house, he does
not forget to put a window in the wall. We
AUTUMN. 57
see truth. We are children of light. Our des
tiny is dark. No other sense has so much to do
with the future. The body of science will not
be complete till every sense has thus ruled our
thought and language and action in its turn.
Oct. 3, 1852. P. M. To Flint's Pond. I
hear a hylodes (?) from time to time. Hear the
loud laughing of a loon on the pond from time
to time, apparently alone in the middle. A wild
sound, heard far, and suited to the wildest lake.
Seen from Heywood's Peak at Walden, the
shore is now more beautifully painted. The
most prominent trees are the red maples and
the yellowish aspens.
The pine fall or change has commenced, and
the trees are mottled green and yellowish.
Oct. 3, 1853. Viola lanceolata in Moore's
Swamp.
Oct. 3, 1857. How much more agreeable to
sit in the midst of old furniture like Minott's
clock and secretary and looking-glass, which have
come down from other generations, than amid
that which was just brought from the cabinet
maker's, and smells of varnish, like a coffin ! To
sit under the face of an old clock that has been
ticking one hundred and fifty years, — there is
something mortal, not to say immortal, about it ;
a clock that began to tick when Massachusetts
was a province.
58 AUTUMN.
Oct. 3, 1858. How many men have a fatal
excess of manner ! There was one came to our
house the other evening, and behaved very sim
ply and well till the moment he was passing out
the door. He then suddenly put on the airs of
a well-bred man, and consciously described some
arc of beauty or other with his head or hand.
It was but a slight flourish, but it has put me on
the alert.
It is interesting to consider how that crotalaria
spreads itself, sure to find out the most suitable
soil. One year I find it on the Great Fields,
and think it rare. The next I find it in a new
and unexpected place. It flits about like a flock
of sparrows from field to field.
Standing on the railroad, I look across the
pond to Pine Hill, where the outside trees, and
the shrubs scattered generally through the wood,
glow yellow and scarlet through the green, like
fires just kindled at the base of the trees, a gen
eral conflagration just fairly under way, soon to
envelop every tree. The hillside forest is all
aglow along its edge, and in all its cracks and
fissures, and soon the flames will leap upwards
to the tops of the tallest trees.
I hear out towards the middle, or a dozen
rods from me, the plashing made apparently by
the shiners ; for they look and shine like them,
leaping in schools on the surface. Many lift
AUTUMN. 59
themselves quite out for a foot or two, but most
rise only part way out, twenty black points at
once. There are several schools indulging in
this sport from time to time, as they swim slowly
along. This I ascertain by paddling out to
them. Perhaps they leap and dance in the water
just as gnats dance in the air at present. I have
seen it before in the fall. Is it peculiar to this
season ?
The large leaves of some black oak sprouts
are dark purple, almost blackish above, but
greenish beneath.
Oct. 3, 1859. P. M. To Bateman's Pond ;
back by the hog pasture and old Carlisle road.
Some faces that I see are so gross that they
affect me like a part of the person improperly
exposed, and it seems to me that they might be
covered, and, if necessary, some other and per
haps better looking part of the person be ex
posed.
Looking from the hog pasture over the valley
of Spencer Brook westward, we see the smoke
rising from a huge chimney above a gray roof
and the woods at a distance, where some family
is preparing its evening meal. There are few
more agreeable sights than this to the pedestrian
traveler. No cloud is fairer to him than that
little bluish one which arises from the chimney.
It suggests all of domestic felicity beneath.
60 AUTUMN.
There we imagine that life is lived of which we
have only dreamed. In our minds we clothe
each unseen inhabitant with all the success, all
the serenity, we can conceive of. If old, we im
agine him serene ; if young, hopeful. We have
only to see a gray roof with its plume of smoke
curling up, to have this faith. There we sus
pect no coarse haste or bustle, but serene labors
which proceed at the same pace with the declin
ing day. There is no hireling in the barn nor in
the kitchen. Why are distant valleys, why lakes,
why mountains in the horizon, ever fair to us ?
Because we imagine for a moment that they may
be the home of man, and that man's life may be
in harmony with them. The sky and clouds and
earth itself, with their beauty, forever preach to
us, saying, Such an abode we offer you, to such
a life we encourage you. Here is not haggard
poverty and harassing debt ; here is not intem
perance, moroseness, meanness, or vulgarity.
Men go about sketching, painting landscapes,
or writing verses which celebrate man's oppor
tunities. To go into an actual farmer's family
at evening, see the tired laborers come in from
their day's work thinking of their wages, the
sluttish help in the kitchen and sink-room, the
indifferent stolidity and patient misery which
only the spirits of the youngest children rise
above, suggests one train of thought ; it suggests
AUTUMN. 61
another to look down on that roof from a dis
tance, on an October evening, when its smoke is
ascending peacefully to join the kindred clouds
above. We are ever busy hiring house and
lands, and peopling them in our imaginations.
There is no beauty in the sky, but in the eye
that sees it. Health, high spirits, serenity, are
the great landscape painters. Turners, Claudes,
Eembrandts, are nothing to them. We never
see any beauty but as the garment of some
virtue. Consider the infinite promise of a man,
so that the sight of his roof at a distance sug
gests an idyl or a pastoral, or of his grave, an
Elegy in a Country Churchyard. How all poets
have idealized the farmer's life ! What graceful
figures and unworldly characters they have as
signed to them ! Serene as the sky, emulating
nature with their calm and peaceful lives.
Oct. 4, 1840. It is vastly easier to discover
than to see when the cover is off.
Oct. 4, 1851. Minott was telling me to-day
that he used to know a man in Lincoln who had
no floor to his barn, but waited till the ground
froze, then swept it clean in the barn and
threshed his grain on it. He also used to see
men threshing their buckwheat in the field where
it grew, having just taken off the surface down
to a hard pan. He used the word gavel to de
scribe a parcel of stalks cast on the ground to
62 AUTUMN.
dry. His are good old English words, and I am
always sure to find them in the dictionary,
though I never heard them before in my life. I
was admiring his cornstalks disposed about the
barn, to-day, over or astride the braces and the
timbers, of such a fresh, clean, and handsome
green, retaining their strength and nutritive
properties, so unlike the gross and careless hus
bandry of speculating, money-making farmers,
who suffer their stalks to remain out till they
are dry and dingy and black as chips. Minott
is perhaps the most poetical farmer, the one who
most realizes to me the poetry of the farmer's
life, that I know. He does nothing with haste
and drudgery, but everything as if he loved it.
He makes the most of his labor, and takes infi
nite satisfaction in every part of it. He is not
looking forward to the sale of his crops, but he
is paid by the constant satisfaction which his
labor yields him. He has not too much land to
trouble him, too much work to do, no hired man
nor boy, but simply to amuse himself and live.
He cares not so much to raise a large crop as to
do his work well. He knows every pin and nail
in his barn. If any part of it is to be floored,
he lets no hired man rob him of that amusement,
but he goes slowly to the woods, and at his
leisure selects a pitch-pine tree, cuts it, and
hauls it or gets it hauled to the mill ; and so he
AUTUMN. 63
knows the history of his barn floor. Farming is
an amusement which has lasted him longer than
gunning or fishing. He is never in a hurry to
get his garden planted, and yet it is always
planted soon enough, and none in the town is
kept so beautifully clean. He always prophesies
a failure of the crops, and yet is satisfied with
what he gets. His barn floor is fastened down
with oak pins, and he prefers them to iron
spikes, which he says will rust and give way. He
handles and amuses himself with every ear of
his corn crop as much as a child with his play
things, and so his small crop goes a great way.
He might well cry if it were carried to market.
The seed of weeds is no longer in his soil. He
loves to walk in a swamp in windy weather, and
hear the wind groan through the pines. He in
dulges in no luxury of food, or dress, or furni
ture, yet he is not penurious, but merely simple.
If his sister dies before him, he may have to go
to the almshouse in his old age, yet he is not
poor, for he does not want riches. With never
failing rheumatism and trembling hands, he
seems yet to enjoy perennial health. Though
he never reads a book since he finished the
" Naval Monument," he speaks the best of
English.
Oct. 4, 1858. Just at the edge of evening, I
saw on the sidewalk something bright like fire,
64 AUTUMN.
as if molten lead were scattered along, and then
I wondered if a drunkard's spittle were lumi
nous, and proceeded to poke it on to a leaf with
a stick. It was rotten wood. I found that it
came from the bottom of some old fence posts
which had just been dug up near by, and there
glowed for a foot or two, being quite rotten and
soft. It suggested that a lamp-post might be
more luminous at bottom than at top. I cut
out a handful and carried it about. It was a
very pale brown, some almost white, in the
light, quite soft and flaky ; and as I withdrew it
gradually from the light, it began to glow with
a distinctly blue fire in its recesses, becoming
more universal and whiter as the darkness in
creased. Carried toward a candle, its light is
quite blue. A man whom I met in the street
was able to tell the time by his watch, holding
it over what was in my hand. The posts were
oak, probably white. Mr. M , the mason,
told me that he heard his dog barking the other
night, and going out found that it was at the
bottom of an old post he had dug up during
the day, which was all aglow.
See B a-fishing notwithstanding the wind.
A man runs down, fails, loses self-respect, and
goes a-fishing, though he were never on the river
before. Yet methinks his misfortune is good
fortune, and he is the more mellow and humane.
A UTUMN. 65
Perhaps he begins to perceive more clearly that
the object of life is something else than acquir
ing property, and he really stands in a truer
relation to his fellow-men than when he com
manded a false respect from them. There he
stands at length, perchance better employed than
ever, holding communion with nature and him
self, and coming to understand his real position
and relation to men in the world. It is better
than a poor debtors' prison, better than most
successful money-getting.
The hickories on the northwest side of this
hill are in the prime of their color, of a rich
orange ; some with green intimately mixed,
handsomer than those that are wholly changed.
The outmost parts and edges of the foliage are
orange; the recesses green, as if the outmost
parts, being turned toward the sunny fire, were
first baked by it.
Oct. 4, 1859. When I have made a visit
where my expectations are not met, I feel as if
I owed my hosts an apology for troubling them
so. If I am disappointed, I find that I have no
right to visit them.
I have always found that what are called the
best of manners are the worst, for they are sim
ply the shell without the meat. They cover no
life at all. They are the universal slave-holders
who treat men as things. Nobody holds you
66 AUTUMN.
more cheap than the man of manners. They
are marks by the help of which the wearers ig
nore you, and remain concealed themselves.
All men sympathize by their lower natures,
few only by the higher. The appetites of the
mistress are commonly the same as those of her
servant, but her society is commonly more select.
The help may have some of the tenderloin, but
she must eat it in the kitchen.
p. M. To Conantum. How interesting now,
by wall-sides and on open springy hillsides, the
large straggling tufts of the Dicksonia fern
above the leaf-strewn green sward, the cold, fall-
green sward ! They are unusually preserved
about the Corner Spring, considering the earli-
ness of this year. Long, handsome, lanceolate
green fronds pointing in every direction, re
curved and full of fruit, intermixed with yellow
ish and sere brown and shriveled ones, the whole
clump perchance strewn with fallen and withered
maple leaves, and overtopped by now withered
and unnoticed osmundas. Their lingering green
ness is so much the more noticeable now that the
leaves generally have changed. They affect us
as if they were evergreen, such persistent life
and greenness in the midst of decay. No matter
how much they are strewn with withered leaves,
moist and green they spire above them, not fear
ing the frosts, fragile as they are. Their green-
AUTUMN. 67
ness is so much the more interesting, because so
many have already fallen, and we know that the
first severer frost will cut off them too. In the
summer greenness is cheap, now it is a thing
comparatively rare, and is the emblem of life
to us.
It is only when we forget all our learning
that we begin to know. I do not get nearer by
a hair's breadth to any natural object, so long
as I presume that I have an introduction to it
from some learned man. To conceive of it with
a total apprehension, I must for the thousandth
time approach it as something totally strange.
If you would make acquaintance with the ferns,
you must forget your botany. Not a single
scientific term or distinction is the least to the
purpose. You would fain perceive something,
and you must approach the object totally unpre
judiced. You must be aware that no thing is
what you have taken it to be. In what book is
this world and its beauty described ? Who has
plotted the steps toward the discovery of beau
ty ? You must be in a different state from com
mon. Your greatest success will be simply to
perceive that such things are, and you will have
no communication to make to the Royal Society.
If it were required to know the position of the
fruit dots or the character of the indusium, no
thing could be easier than to ascertain it ; but if
68 AUTUMN.
it is required that you be affected by ferns, that
they amount to anything, signify anything, to
you, that they be another sacred scripture and
revelation to you, helping to redeem your life,
this end is not so easily accomplished.
I see and hear probably flocks of grackles
with their split and shuffling note, but no red
wings for a long time ; chipbirds (but without
chestnut crowns; is that the case with the
young?), bay wings on the walls and fences,
and the yellow-browed sparrow. Hear the pine
warblers in the pines, about the needles, and
see them on the ground and on rocks, with a
yellow ring round the eye, reddish legs, and a
slight whitish bar on the wings. Going over
the large hillside stubble field west of Holdeii
wood, I start up a large flock of shore larks,
hear their sveet sveet and sveet sveet sveet, and
see their tails dark beneath. They are very
wary, and run in the stubble, for the most part
invisible, while one or two appear to act the
sentinel at some rock, peeping out behind it, per
haps, and give their note of alarm, when away
goes the whole flock. Such a flock circled back
and forth several times over my head, just like
ducks reconnoitring before they alight. If you
look with a glass, you are surprised to see how
alert the spies are. These larks have dusky bills
and legs.
AUTUMN. 69
The birds seem to delight in these first fine
days of the fall, in the warm hazy light, —
robins, bluebirds (in families on the almost bare
elms), phoebes, and probably purple finches. I
hear half -strains from many of them, as the song
sparrow, bluebird, etc., and the sweet phe-be of
the chickadee. Now the year itself begins to be
ripe, ripened by the frost like a persimmon.
The maiden-hair fern at Conantum is appar
ently unhurt by frost as yet.
Oct. 5, 1840. A part of me, which has re
posed in silence all day, goes abroad at night
like the owl, and has its day. At night we re
cline and nestle, and infold ourselves in our
being. Each night I go home to rest. Each
night I am gathered to my fathers. The soul
departs out of the body, and sleeps in God, a
divine slumber. As she withdraws herself, the
limbs droop and the eyelids fall, and Nature
reclaims her clay again. Man has always re
garded the night as ambrosial or divine. The
air is then peopled, fairies come out.
Oct. 5, 1851. I observe that the woodchuck
has two or more holes a rod or two apart : one,
or the front door, where the excavated sand is
heaped up ; another not so easily discovered,
very small, without any sand about it, by which
he emerges, smaller directly at the surface than
beneath, on the principle by which a well is
70 AUTUMN.
dug, making as small a hole as possible at the
surface, to prevent caving.
Still, purplish asters, late golden-rods, fra
grant life-everlasting, purple gerardia, great
bidens, etc.
I hear the red-winged blackbirds by the river
side again, as if it were a new spring. They
seem to have come to bid farewell. The birds
appear to depart with the coming of the frosts
which kill the vegetation, and directly or indi
rectly the insects on which they feed. The
American bittern, Ardea minor, flew across the
river, trailing his legs in the water, scared up
by us. This, according to Peabody, is the
boomer [stake-driver]. In their sluggish flight,
they can hardly keep their legs up. I wonder
if they can soar.
8 P. M. To Cliffs. Moon three quarters full.
The nights now are very still, for there is hardly
any noise of birds or insects. The whippoor-
will is not heard, nor the mosquito; only the
occasional lisping of some sparrow. As I go
through the woods, I perceive a sweet dry scent
from the under woods like that of the fragrant
life-everlasting. I suppose it is that. I fre
quently see a light on the ground within thick
and dark woods, where all around is in shadow,
and hasten forward, expecting to find some de
cayed and phosphorescent stump, but find it to
AUTUMN. 71
be some clear moonlight that falls through a
crevice in the leaves.
The fairies are a quiet, gentle folk, invented
plainly to inhabit the moonlight. As moonlight
is to sunlight, so are the fairies to men.
Oct. 5, 1852. I was told at Bunker Hill
Monument to-day that Mr. Savage saw the
White Mountains several times while work
ing on the monument. It required very clear
weather in the northwest, and a storm clear
ing up here.
Oct. 5, 1853. The howling of the wind about
the house just before a storm to-night sounds
extremely like a loon on the pond. How fit !
Oct. 5, 1856. P. M. To Hill and over the
pastures westward. In the huckleberry pasture,
by the fence of old barn boards, I notice many
little pale-brown, dome-shaped puffballs puck
ered to a centre beneath. When you pinch
them, a smoke-like, brown, snuff-colored dust
rises from the orifice at their top, just like
smoke from a chimney. It is so fine and light
that it rises into the air, and is wafted away like
smoke from a chimney. They are low Oriental
domes or mosques, sometimes crowded together
in nests, like a collection of humble cottages on
the moor ; for there is suggested some humble
hearth beneath, from which this smoke comes
up, as it were the homes of slugs and crickets.
72 AUTUMN.
They please ine not a little by their resemblance
to rude, dome-shaped, turf-built cottages on the
plain, where some humble but everlasting life is
lived. I imagine a hearth and pot, and some
snug but humble family passing its Sunday even
ing beneath each one. I locate there at once all
that is simple and admirable in human life.
There is no virtue which these roofs exclude.
I imagine with what contentment and faith I
could come home to them at evening. On one
I find a slug feeding, with a little hole beneath
him ; this is a different species, the white pigeon-
egg kind, with rough, crystallized surface. A
cricket has eaten out the whole inside of an
other in which he is housed. This before they
are turned to dust.
It is well to find your employment and amuse
ment in simple and homely things. These wear
best and yield most. I think I would rather
watch the motions of these cows in their pasture
for a day, which I now see all headed one way
and slowly advancing, watch them and project
their course carefully on a chart, and report
all their behavior faithfully, than wander to
Europe or Asia, and watch other motions there ;
for it is only ourselves that we report in either
case, and perchance we shall report a more rest
less, worthless self in the latter case than the
former.
AUTUMN. 73
Oct. 5, 1857. There is not now that pro
fusion, and consequent confusion, of events
which belongs to a summer walk. There are
few flowers, birds, insects, or fruits now, and
hence what does occur affects us as more sim
ple and significant, as the cawing of a crow or
the scream of a jay. The latter seems to scream
more fitly and with more freedom through the
vacancies occasioned by fallen maple leaves.
I hear the alarum of a small red squirrel, and
see him running by fits and starts along a chest
nut bough toward me. His head looks dispro-
portionally large for his body, like a bull-dog's,
perhaps because he has his chaps full of nuts.
He chirrups and vibrates his tail, holds himself
in, and scratches along a foot as if it was a
mile. He finds noise and activity for both of
us. It is evident that all this ado does not
proceed from fear. There is at the bottom,
no doubt, an excess of inquisitiveness and cau
tion, but the greater part is make-believe, and
a love of the marvelous. He can hardly keep
it up till I am gone, however, but takes out his
nut and tastes it in the midst of his agitation.
" See there, see there," says he. " Who 's that ?
Oh, dear, what shall I do ? " and makes believe
run off, but does not get along an inch, lets
it all pass off by flashes through his tail, while
he clings to the bark as if he were holding in
74 AUTUMN.
a race-horse. He gets down the trunk at last
upon a projecting knob, head downward, within
a rod of you, and chirrups and chatters louder
than ever, trying to work himself into a fright.
The hind part of his body is urging the forward
part along, snapping the tail over it like a whip
lash, but the fore part mostly clings fast to the
bark with desperate energy. Squirr, " to throw
with a jerk," seems to have quite as much to do
with the name as the Greek " skia," " oura,"
shadow and tail.
Oct. 5, 1858. In the evening I am glad to
find that my phosphorescent wood of last night
still glows somewhat, but I improve it much by
putting it in water. The little chips which re
main in the water or sink to the bottom are like
so many stars in the sky.
The comet makes a great show these nights.
Its tail is at least as long as the whole of the
Great Dipper, to whose handle, till within a
night or two, it reached in a great curve, and
we plainly see stars through it.
Oct. 6, 1840. The revolution of the seasons
is a great and steady flow, a graceful, peaceful
motion, like the swell on lakes and seas. No
where does any rigidity grow upon nature, no
muscles harden, no bones protrude, but she is
supple-jointed now and always. No rubbish ac
cumulates from day to day, but still does fresh-
AUTUMN. 75
ness predominate on her cheek, and cleanliness
in her attire. The dust settles on the fences
and the rocks and the pastures by the roadside,
but still the sward is just as green, nay greener,
for all that. The morning air is clear even at
this day. It is not begrimed with all the dust
that has been raised. The dew makes all clean
again. Nature keeps her besom always wagging.
She has no lumber-room, no dust-hole, in her
house. No man was ever yet too nice to walk
in her woods and fields. His religion allows
the Arab to cleanse his body with sand, when
water is not at hand.
Oct. 6, 1851. 7.30 P. M. To Fair Haven
Pond by boat, the moon four fifths full ; not a
cloud in the sky. The water is perfectly still,
and the air almost so, the former gleaming like
oil in the moonlight, and the moon's disk re
flected in it. When we started, saw some fisher
men kindling their fire for spearing, by the river
side. It was a lurid, reddish blaze, contrasting
with the white light of the moon, with a dense
volume of black smoke from the burning pitch-
pine roots, rolling upward in the form of an in
verted pyramid. The blaze was reflected in the
water almost as distinct as the substance. It
looked like tarring a ship on the shore of Styx
or Cocytus ; for it is dark notwithstanding the
moon, and there is no sound but the crackling
76 AUTUMN.
of the fire. The fishermen can be seen only
near at hand, though their fire is visible far
away, and then they appear as dusky, fuliginous
figures, half enveloped in smoke, seen only by
their enlightened sides. Like devils they look,
clad in old clothes to defend themselves from
the fogs, one standing up forward holding the
spear ready to dart, while the smoke and flames
are blown in his face, the other paddling the
boat slowly and silently along close to the shore
with almost imperceptible motion. . . .
Now the fishermen's fire left behind becomes
a star. As surely as the sunlight falling
through an irregular chink makes a round fig
ure on the opposite wall, so the blaze at a dis
tance appears a star. Such is the effect of the
atmosphere. The bright sheen of the moon is
constantly traveling with us, and is seen at the
same angle in front on the surface of the pads,
and the reflection of its disk on the rippled
water by our boat-side appears like bright gold
pieces falling on the river's counter.
Oct. 6, 1857. I have just read Euskin's
" Modern Painters." I am disappointed in not
finding it a more out-of-door book, for I had
heard that such was its character. But its title
might have warned me. He does not describe
nature as nature, but as Turner painted her.
Although the work betrays that he has given
AUTUMN. 11
close attention to nature, it appears to have
been with an artist's and critic's design. How
much is written about nature as somebody has
portrayed her, how little about nature as she is
and chiefly concerns us ; i. e., how much prose,
how little poetry !
Oct. 7, 1851. By boat to Corner Spring. A
very still, warm, bright, clear afternoon. Our
boat so small and low that we are close to the
water. The muskrats all the way are now build
ing their houses ; about two thirds done. They
are of an oval form, composed of mouthfuls of
pontederia leaf stems, now dead, the capillaceous
roots or leaves of the water marigold and other
capillaceous-leaved water-plants, flagroot, a plant
which looks like a cock's tail or a peacock's
feather in form, the Potamogeton JRobbinsii,
clamshells, etc. ; sometimes rising from amidst
the dead pontederia stems or resting on the but
ton bushes or the willows. The mouthfuls are
disposed in layers successively smaller, forming
a somewhat conical mound. Seen at this stage,
these houses show some art and a good deal of
labor. We pulled one to pieces to examine the
inside. There was a small cavity which might
hold two or three full-grown muskrats, just
above the level of the water, quite wet and of
course dark and narrow, communicating immedi
ately with a gallery under water. There were
78 AUTUMN.
a few pieces of the white root of some water-
plant, perhaps a pontederia or lily, in it. There
they dwell in close contiguity to the water it
self, always in a wet apartment, in a wet coat
never changed, with immeasurable water in the
cellar, through which is the only exit. They
have reduced life to a lower scale than Diogenes.
Certainly they do not fear cold, ague, or con
sumption. Think of bringing up a family in
such a place, worse than a Broad Street cellar !
But probably these are not their breeding-places.
The muskrat and the fresh-water mussel are very
native to our river. The Indian, their human
confrere, has departed. This is a settler whom
our lowlands and our bogs do not hurt. How
long has the muskrat dined on mussels ? The
river mud itself will have the ague as soon as
he. What occasion has he for a dentist ? Their
unfinished, rapidly rising nests look now like
truncated cones. They seem to be all building
at once in different parts of the river, and to
have advanced equally far.
Saw the Ardea minor walking along the shore
like a hen with long green legs. Its penciled
throat is so like the reeds and other shore plants
amid which it holds its head erect to watch the
passer that it is difficult to discern it. You
can get very near it, for it is unwilling to fly,
preferring to hide amid the weeds.
AUTUMN. 79
Oct. 7, 1852. P. M. To Great Meadows. I
find no fringed gentians. Perhaps the autumnal
tints are as bright and interesting now as they
will be. Now is the time to behold the maple
swamps, one mass of red and yellow, all on fire ;
these and the blood-red huckleberries are the
most conspicuous, and then in the village the
warm brownish-yellow elms, and there and else
where the dark red ashes. I notice the Viola
ovata, houstonia, Ranunculus repens, caducous
polygala, small, scratchgrass polygonum, autum
nal dandelion very abundant, small bushy white
aster, a few golden-rods, Polygonum hydropipe-
roides-) the unknown, flowerless bidens, soapwort
gentian, now turned dark purple, yarrow, the
white erigeron, red clover, and hedge-mustard.
The muskrats have begun to erect their cabins.
Saw one done. Do they build them in the night ?
Hear and see larks, bluebirds, robins, and
song sparrows. Also see painted tortoises and
shad frogs.
I sit on Poplar Hill. It is a warm, Indian-
summerish afternoon. The sun comes out of
clouds, and lights up and warms the whole scene.
It is perfect autumn. I see a hundred smokes
rising through the yellow elm tops in the village,
where the villagers are preparing for tea. It is
the mellowing year. The sunshine harmonizes
with the imbrowned and fiery foliage.
80 AUTUMN.
Oct. 7, 1857. Halfway up Fair Haven Hill,
I am surprised for the thousandth time by the
beauty of the landscape, and sit down by the
orchard wall to behold it at my leisure. It is
always incredibly fair, but ordinarily we are
mere objects in it, and not witnesses of it. I see
through the bright October air a valley, some
two miles across, extending southwest and north
east, with a broad, yellow meadow tinged with
brown at the bottom, and a blue river winding
slowly through it northward, with a regular edg
ing of low bushes of the same color with the
meadow. Skirting the meadow are straggling
lines, and occasionally large masses, one quarter
of a mile wide, of brilliant scarlet and yellow
and crimson trees, backed by green forests and
green and russet fields and hills, and on the hills
around shoot up a million scarlet and orange
and yellow and crimson fires. Here and there
amid the trees, often beneath the largest and
most graceful of them, are white or gray houses.
Beyond stretches a forest, wreath upon wreath,
and between each two wreaths I know lies a
similar vale, and far beyond all, on the verge of
the horizon, rise half a dozen dark blue mountain
summits. Large birds of a brilliant blue and
white plumage are darting and screaming amid
the glowing foliage a quarter of a mile below,
while smaller bluebirds are warbling faintly but
AUTUMN. 81
sweetly around me. Such is the dwelling-place
of man ; but go to a caucus in the village to-night,
or to a church to-morrow, and see if there is
anything said to suggest that the inhabitants of
these houses know what manner of world they
live in. It chanced that I heard just then the
tolling of a distant funeral bell. Its serious
sound was more in harmony with that scenery
than any ordinary bustle would have been. It
suggested that man must die to his present life
before he can appreciate his opportunities and
the beauty of the abode that is appointed him.
I do not know how to entertain those who
cannot take long walks. The first thing that
suggests itself is to get a horse to draw them,
and that brings me at once into contact with
the stables and dirty harness, and I do not get
over my ride for a long time. I give up my
forenoon to them, and get along pretty well, the
very elasticity of the air and promise of the day
abetting me ; but they are as heavy as dumplings
by mid-afternoon. If they can't walk, why won't
they take an honest nap in the afternoon and
let me go? But when two o'clock comes, they
alarm me by an evident disposition to sit. In
the midst of the most glorious Indian summer
afternoon, there they sit, breaking your chairs
and wearing out the house, with their backs to
the light, taking no note of the lapse of time.
82 AUTUMN.
As I sat on the high bank at the east end of
Walden this afternoon at five o'clock, I saw by
a peculiar intention of the eye, a very striking,
sub-aqueous rainbow-like phenomenon. A passer
by might have noticed the reflections of those
bright-tinted shrubs along the high shore on the
sunny side, but unless on the alert for such
effects he would have failed to perceive the full
beauty of the phenomenon. Those brilliant
shrubs, from three to a dozen feet in height, were
all reflected, dimly so far as the details of leaves,
etc., were concerned, but brightly as to color,
and of course in the order in which they stood,
scarlet, yellow, green, etc. ; but there being a
slight ripple on the surface, these reflections
were not true to the height of their substances,
only as to color, breadth of base, and order, but
were extended downward with mathematical per
pendicularity three or four times too far for the
height of the substances, forming sharp pyramids
of the several colors gradually reduced to mere
dusky points. The effect of this prolongation
was a very agreeable softening and blending of
the colors, especially when a small bush of one
bright tint stood directly before another of a
contrary and equally bright tint. It was just as
if you were to brush firmly aside with your hand
or a brush a fresh hue of paint or so many lumps
of friable colored powders. There was accord-
AUTUMN. 83
ingly a sort of belt, as wide as the height of the
hill, extending downward along the whole north
or sunny side of the pond, composed of exceed
ingly short and narrow inverted pyramids of the
most brilliant colors intermixed. I have seen
similar inverted pyramids in the old drawings of
tattooing about the waists of the aborigines of
this country. Walden, like an Indian maiden,
wears this broad, rainbow-like belt of brilliant-
colored points or cones round her waist in Octo
ber. The colors seem to be reflected and re-
reflected from ripple to ripple, losing brightness
each time by the softest possible gradation, and
tapering towards the beholder.
Oct. 7, 1860. Remarking to old Mr.
the other day on the abundance of the apples,
"Yes," says he, "and fair as dollars, too."
That 's the kind of beauty they see in apples.
Many people have a foolish way of talking
about small things, and apologize for themselves
or another as having attended to such, having
neglected their ordinary business, and amused
or instructed themselves by attending to small
things, when, if the truth were known, their or
dinary business was the small thing, and almost
their whole lives were misspent.
Oct. 8, 1851. 2 P. M. To the Marlboro' road.
Picked up an Indian gouge on Dennis's Hill.
Some white oak acorns in the path by a wood-
84 AUTUMN.
side I found to be unexpectedly sweet and pal
atable, the bitterness being scarcely perceptible.
To my taste they are quite as good as chestnuts.
No wonder the first men lived on acorns. Such
as these are no mean food, as they are repre
sented to be. Their sweetness is like the sweet
ness of bread. The whole world is sweeter to
me for having discovered such palatableness in
this neglected nut. I am related again to the
first men. What can be handsomer, wear better
to the eye, than the color of the acorn, like the
leaves on which it falls, polished or varnished.
I should be at least equally pleased, if I were
to find that the grass tasted sweet and nutri
tious. It increases the number of my friends,
it diminishes the number of my foes. How
easily, at this season, I could feed myself in the
woods ! There is mast for me too, as well as for
the pigeon and the squirrels, — this Dodonean
fruit. The sweet-acorn tree is famous and well
known to the boys. There can be no question
respecting the wholesomeness of this diet.
The jointed polygonum in the Marlboro' road
is an interesting flower, it is so late, so bright a
red, though inobvious from its minuteness, with
out leaves, above the sand like sorrel, mixed
with other minute flowers.
An arrow-head at the desert. Filled my
pockets with acorns. Found another gouge on
AUTUMN. 85
Dennis's Hill. To have found two Indian
gouges and tasted sweet acorns, is it not enough
for one afternoon ?
A warm night like this at this season pro
duces its effect on the village. The boys are
heard in the street now at nine o'clock, in
greater force and with more noise than usual,
and my neighbor has got out his flute.
The moon is full. The tops of the woods in
the horizon, seen above the fog, look exactly like
long, low, black clouds, the fog being the color
of the sky.
Oct. 8, 1857. Walking through the Lee
farm swamp, a dozen or more rods from the
river, I found a large box trap closed. I opened
it and found in it the remains of a gray rabbit,
skin, bones, and mould closely fitting the right-
angled corner of one side. It was wholly inof
fensive, as so much vegetable mould, and must
have been dead some years. None of the furni
ture of the trap remained, only the box itself ;
the stick which held the bait, the string, etc.,
were all gone. The box had the appearance of
having been floated off in an upright position
by a freshet. It had been a rabbit's living
tomb. He had gradually starved to death in it.
What a tragedy to have occurred within a box
in one of our quiet swamps ! The trapper lost
his box, the rabbit its life. The box had not
86 AUTUMN.
been gnawed. After days and nights of moan
ing and struggle, heard for a few rods through
the swamp, increasing weakness and emaciation
and delirium, the rabbit breathed its last. They
tell you of opening the tomb and finding, by
the contortions of the body, that it was buried
alive. This was such a case. Let the trapping
boy dream of the dead rabbit in its ark, as it
sailed, like a small meeting house with its rude
spire, slowly, with a grand and solemn motion,
far amid the alders.
Oct. 9, 1850. I am always exhilarated, as
were the early voyagers, by the sight of sas
safras, Laurus sassafras. The green leaves
bruised have the fragrance of lemons and a
thousand spices. To the same order belong
cinnamon, cassia, camphor.
The seed vessel of the sweetbrier is a very
beautiful, glossy, elliptical fruit. This shrub,
what with the fragrance of its leaves, its blos
som, and its fruit, is thrice crowned.
Oct. 9, 1851. Heard two screech owls in
the night.
Boiled a quart of acorns for breakfast, but
found them not so palatable as the raw, having
acquired a bitterish taste, perchance from being
boiled with the shells and skins. Yet one would
soon get accustomed to this.
2 P. M. To Conantum. I hear the green
AUTUMN. 87
locust again on the alders of the causeway, but
he is turned straw color. The warm weather
has revived them.
All the acorns on the same tree are not
equally sweet. They appear to dry sweet.
I see half a dozen snakes in this walk, green
and striped, one very young striped snake. They
appear to be out enjoying the sun, and to make
the most of the last warm days of the year.
The hill and plain on the opposite side of the
river are covered with the warm deep red leaves
of shrub oak. On Lee's hillside by the pond,
the red leaves of some pitch pines are almost
of a golden yellow hue seen in the sunlight, a
rich autumnal look. The green are, as it were,
set in the yellow.
The witch hazel here is in full blossom on this
magical hillside, while its broad yellow leaves
are falling. Some bushes are completely bare
of leaves, and leather-colored they strew the
ground. It is an extremely interesting plant,
October and November child, and yet reminds
me of the very earliest spring. Its blossoms
smell like the spring, like the willow catkins.
By their color as well as fragrance they belong
to the saffron dawn of the year, suggesting amid
all these signs of autumn, falling leaves, and
frost, that the life of nature by which she eter
nally flourishes is untouched. It stands here in
88 AUTUMN.
the shadow on the side of the hill, while the
sunlight from over the top of the hill lights up
its topmost sprays and yellow blossoms. Its
spray, so jointed and angular, is not to be mis
taken for any other. I lie on my back with joy
under its boughs. While its leaves fall, its
blossoms spring. The autumn, then, is indeed
a spring. All the year is a spring. I see two
blackbirds high overhead going south, but I am
going in my thoughts with these hazel blossoms.
It is a fairy place. This is a part of the immor
tality of the soul. When I was thinking that
it bloomed too late for bees or other insects to
extract honey from its flowers, that perchance
they yielded no honey, I saw a bee upon it.
How important, then, to the bees this late blos
soming plant.
A large sassafras tree behind Lee's, two feet
in diameter at the ground.
There is a thick bed of leaves in the road
under Hubbard's elms. This reminds me of
Cato, as if the ancients made more use of na
ture than we. He says, " Stramenta si de-
erunt, f rondem iligneam legito ; earn substernito
ovibus bubusque." If litter is wanting, gather
the leaves of the holm oak, and strew them
under your sheep and oxen. In another place
he says, " Circum vias ulmos serito et partim
populos, uti f rondem ovibus et bubus habeas."
AUTUMN. 89
There is little or no use made by us of the
leaves of trees, not even for beds, unless it be
sometimes to rake them up in the woods, and
cast them into hogpens and compost heaps.
Oct. 9, 1857. It has come to this, that the
lover of art is one, and the lover of nature an
other, though true art is but the expression of our
love of nature. It is monstrous when one cares
but little about trees, and much about Corin
thian columns ; yet this is exceedingly common.
Oct. 9, 1858. I watch two marsh hawks
which rise from the woods before me as I sit on
the cliff, at first plunging at each other, gradu
ally lifting themselves, as they come round in
their gyrations, higher and higher, and floating
toward the southeast. Slender dark motes they
are at last, but every time they come round
eastward, I see the light of the westering sun
reflected from the under sides of their wings.
Oct. 9, 1860. Up Assabet. I now see one
small red maple which is all a pure yellow with
in, and a bright red or scarlet on its outer sur
face and prominences. It is a remarkably dis
tinct painting of scarlet on a yellow ground. It
is an indescribably beautiful contrast of scarlet
and yellow. Another is yellow and green where
this was scarlet and yellow, and in this case, the
bright and liquid green, now getting to be rare,
is by contrast as charming a color as the scarlet.
90 AUTUMN.
I wonder that the very cows and the dogs in
the street do not manifest a recognition of the
bright tints about and above them. I saw a
terrier dog glance up and down the painted
street before he turned in at his master's gate,
and I wondered what he thought of these lit
trees, if they did not touch his philosophy or
spirits, but I fear he had only his common dog
gish thoughts after all. He trotted down the
yard as if it were a matter of course, or else as
if he deserved it all.
For two or more nights past we have had re
markable glittering golden sunsets as I came
home from the post-office, it being cold and
cloudy just above the horizon. There was the
most intensely bright golden light at the west
end of the street extending under the elms, and
the very dust a quarter of a mile off was like
gold dust. I wondered how a child could stand
quietly in that light, as if it had been a furnace.
This haste to kill a bird or quadruped, and
make a skeleton of it, which many young men
and some old men exhibit, reminds me of the
fable of the man who killed the hen that laid
golden eggs, and so got no more gold. It is a
perfectly parallel case. Such is the knowledge
you get from anatomy as compared witli that
you may get from the living creature. Every
fowl lays golden eggs for him who can find
them, or can detect alloy and base metal.
AUTUMN. 91
Oct. 10, 1851. The air this morning is full
of bluebirds, and again it is spring. There are
many things to indicate the renewing of spring
at this season, the blossoming of spring flowers,
not to mention the witch-hazel, the notes of spring
birds, the springing of grain and grass and
other plants.
Ah, I yearn toward thee, my friend, but I
have not confidence in thee. We do not be
lieve in the same God. I am not thou, thou art
not I. We trust each other to-day, but we dis
trust to-morrow. Even when I meet thee un
expectedly, I part from thee with disappoint
ment. Though I enjoy thee more than other
men, I am more disappointed with thee than
with others. I know a noble man ; what is it
hinders me from knowing him better ? I know
not how it is that our distrust, our hate, is
stronger than our love. Here I have been on
what the world would call friendly terms with
one fourteen years, have pleased my imagina
tion sometimes with loving him, and yet our
hate is stronger than our love. Why are we
related thus unsatisfactorily to each other?
We are almost a sore to one another. Ever
and anon will come the thought to mar our love,
that change the theme but a hair's breadth, and
we shall be tragically strange to one another.
We do not know what hinders us from coming
92 AUTUMN.
together, but when I consider what my friend's
relations and acquaintances are, what his tastes
and habits, then the difference between us gets
named. I see that all these friends and ac
quaintances and tastes and habits are indeed
my friend's self.
The witch-hazel loves a hillside with or with
out wood or shrubs. It is always pleasant to
come upon it unexpectedly as you are threading
the woods in such places. Methinks I attri
bute to it some elfish quality apart from its fame.
I love to behold its gray speckled stems. The
leaf first green, then yellow for a short season ;
then, when it touches the ground, tawny leather-
color. As I stood amid the witch-hazels near
Flint's Pond, a flock of a dozen chickadees came
flitting and singing about me with great ado, a
most cheering and enlivening sound, with inces
sant day - day - day, and a fine wiry strain, be
tween whiles, flitting ever nearer and nearer in
quisitively, till the boldest was within five feet
of me ; then suddenly, their curiosity sated, they
flitted by degrees farther away, disappeared, and
I heard with regret their retreating day -day-
days.
Oct. 10, 1857. This is the end of the sixth
day of glorious weather, which I am tempted to
call the finest in the year, so bright and serene
the air, such a sheen from the earth, so brilliant
AUTUMN. 93
the foliage, so pleasantly warm (except perhaps
this day, which is cooler), too warm for a thick
coat, yet not sultry nor oppressive, so ripe the
season and our thoughts. Certainly these are
the most brilliant days in the year, ushered
in perhaps by a frosty morning, as this. As
a dewy morning in summer, compared with a
parched and sultry, languid one, so a frosty
morning at this season compared with a merely
dry or foggy one. These days you may say the
year is ripened like a fruit by frost, and puts on
the brilliant tints of maturity, but not yet the
color of decay. It is not sere and withered as
in November.
Oct. 10, 1858. The simplest and most lump
ish fungus has a peculiar interest for us, com
pared with a mere mass of earth, because it is
so obviously organic and related to ourselves,
however remote. It is the expression of an idea,
growth according to a law, matter not dormant,
not raw, but inspired, appropriated by spirit. If
I take up a handful of earth, however separately
interesting the particles may be, their relation to
one another appears to be that of mere juxtapo
sition generally. I might have thrown them to
gether thus. But the humblest fungus betrays a
life akin to my own. It is a successful poem in
its kind. There is suggested something superior
to any particle of matter in the idea or mind
which uses and arranges the particles.
94 AUTUMN.
I find the fringed gentian abundantly open at
three and at four p. M. (in fact it must be all
the afternoon), open to catch the cool October
sun and air in its low position. Such a dark
blue ! surpassing that of the male bluebird's
back.
I see dumb-bells in the minister's study, and
some of their dumbness gets into his sermons.
Some travelers carry them round the world in
their carpet bags. Can he be said to travel
who requires still this exercise? A party of
school children had a picnic in the Easterbrook
country the other day, and they carried bags
of beans for their gymnasium, to exercise with
there. I cannot be interested in these extremely
artificial amusements. The traveler is no
longer a wayfarer with his staff and pack and
dusty coat. He is not a pilgrim, but he travels
in a saloon, and carries dumb-bells to exercise
with in the intervals of his journey.
Oct. 11, 1840. It is always easy to infringe
the law, but the Bedouin of the desert finds it
impossible to resist public opinion.
Oct. 11, 1852. The chestnut leaves already
rustle with a great noise as you walk through
the woods, lying light, firm and crisp. Now the
chestnuts are rattling out. The burrs are gap
ing and showing the plump nuts. They fill the
ruts in the road and are abundant amid the fallen
AUTUMN. 95
leaves in the midst of the wood. The jays
scream and the red squirrels scold while you
are clubbing and shaking the trees. Now it is
true autumn, and all things are crisp and ripe.
I observed the other day that those insects
whose ripple I could see from the peak were
water bugs. I could detect the progress of a
water bug over the smooth surface in ahnost
any part of the pond, for they furrow the water
slightly, making a conspicuous ripple, bounded
by two diverging lines, but the skaters slide
over it without producing a perceptible ripple.
In this clear air and with this glassy surface,
the motion of every water bug, here and there
amid the skaters, was perceptible.
Oct. 11, 1859. The note of the chickadee
heard now in cooler weather above many fallen
leaves, has a new significance.
There was a very severe frost this morning ;
ground stiffened, probably a chestnut-opening
frost, a season ripeness, opener of the burrs
that contain the Indian Summer. Such is the
cold of early or mid October. The leaves and
weeds had a stiff, hoary appearance.
Oct. 11, 1860. Pears are a less poetic though
more aristocratic fruit than apples. They have
neither the beauty nor the fragrance of apples,
but their excellence is in their flavor, which
speaks to a grosser sense, they are glout-mor-
96 AUTUMN.
ceaux; hence while children dream of apples,
judges, ex-judges, and honorables are connois
seurs of pears, and discourse of them at length
between sessions. How much more attention
they get from the proprietor. The hired man
gathers the apples and barrels them. The pro
prietor plucks the pears at odd hours for a pas
time. They are spread on the floor of the best
room, they are a gift to the most distinguished
guest. They are named after emperors, kings,
queens, dukes, and duchesses. I fear I shall
have to wait till we get to pears with American
names, which a republican can swallow.
Oct. 12, 1840. The springs of life flow in
ceaseless tides down below, and hence this
greenness everywhere on the surface. But
they are as yet untapped; only here and there
men have sunk a well.
Oct. 12, 1851. I love very well this cloudy
afternoon, so sober and favorable to reflection,
after so many bright ones. What if the clouds
shut out the heavens, provided they concentrate
my thoughts and make a more celestial heaven
below ! I hear the crickets plainer. I wander
less in my thoughts, am less dissipated, am aware
how shallow was the current of my thoughts
before. Deep streams are dark, as if there
were a cloud in their sky ; shallow ones are
bright and sparkling, reflecting the sun from
AUTUMN. 97
their bottoms. The very wind on my cheek
seems more fraught with meaning.
I seem to be more constantly merged in na
ture, my intellectual life is more obedient to
nature than formerly, but perchance less obedi
ent to spirit. I have less memorable seasons. I
exact less of myself. I am getting used to my
meanness, getting to accept my low estate. Oh,
if I could be discontented with myself! if I
could feel anguish at each descent !
p. M. To Cliffs. I hear Lincoln bell tolling
for church. At first I thought of the telegraph
harp. Heard at a distance, the sound of a bell
acquires a certain vibratory hum, as it were
from the air through which it passes, like a
harp. All music is a harp music at length, as
if the air were full of vibrating strings. It is
not the mere sound of the bell, but the hum
ming in the air that enchants me, just as
the azure tint which much air or distance im
parts, delights the eye. It is not so much the
object, as the object clothed with an azure veil.
All sound heard at a great distance thus tends
to produce the same music, vibrating the strings
of the universal lyre. There comes to me a
melody which the air has strained, which has
conversed with every leaf and needle of the
woods. It is by no means the sound of the bell
as heard near at hand, and which at this dis-
98 AUTUMN.
tance I can plainly distinguish, but its vibrating
echoes, that portion of the sound which the ele
ments take up and modulate, a sound which is
very much modified, sifted, and refined before
it reaches my ear. The echo is to some extent
an independent sound, and therein is the magic
and charm of it. It is not merely a repetition
of my voice, but it is in some measure the voice
of the wood.
Oct. 12, 1852. I am struck by the simplicity
of light in the atmosphere in the autumn, as if
the earth absorbed none, and out of this profu
sion of dazzling light came the autumnal tints.
Can it be because there is less vapor ?
The delicacy of the stratification in the white
sand by the railroad, where they have been get
ting out sand for the brickyards, the delicate
stratification of this great globe, like the leaves
of the choicest volume just shut on a lady's
table ! The piled up history ! I am struck by
the slow and delicate process by which the globe
was formed.
What an ample share of the light of heaven
each pond and lake 011 the surface of the globe
enjoys ! No woods are so dark and deep but it
is light above the pond. Its window or skylight
is as broad as its surface. It lies out, patent to
the sky. From the mountain top you may not
be able to see out, because of the woods, but on
the lake you are bathed in light.
AUTUMN. 99
Oct. 12, 1857. The elm, I think, can be distin
guished farther than any other tree, and however
faintly seen in the distant horizon, its little dark
dome, which the thickness of my nail will con
ceal, apparently not so big as the prominence on
an orange, suggests ever the same quiet, rural
and domestic life passing beneath it. It is like
the vignette to an unseen idyllic poem. Though
the little prominence appears so dark here, I
know that it is now a rich brownish or yellow
canopy of rustling leaves, whose harvest time
has already come, sending down its showers
from time to time. Homestead telegraphs to
homestead through these distant elms seen from
the hilltops. I fancy I hear the house dog
bark, and lowing of the cows asking admittance
to their yard beneath it. The tea-table is spread.
The master and the hired men in their shirt
sleeves, with the mistress, have just sat down.
Oct. 12, 1858. I have heard of judges acci
dentally met at an evening party, discussing the
efficacy of laws and courts, and deciding that
with the aid of the jury system substantial jus
tice was done. But taking those cases in which
honest men refrain from going to law, together
with those in which men honest and dishonest
do go to law, I think the law is really a humbug,
and a benefit principally to the lawyers. This
town has made a law recently against cattle
100 AUTUMN.
going at large, and assigned a penalty of five
dollars. I am troubled by an Irish neighbor's
cow and horse, and have threatened to have them
put in the pound. But a lawyer tells me these
town laws are hard to put through, there are so
many quibbles. He never knew the complain
ant to get his case, if the defendant had a mind
to contend. However, the cattle were kept out
several days, till a Sunday came, and then they
were all in my grounds again, as I heard, but
all my neighbors tell me that I cannot have
them impounded on that day. Indeed, I observe
that very many of my neighbors do for this
reason regularly turn their cattle loose on Sun
days. The judges may discuss the question of
the courts and law over their nuts and raisins,
and mumble for the decision that " substantial
justice is done," but I must believe they mean
that they really get paid a " substantial " salary.
Oct. 13, 1840. The only prayer for a brave
man is to be a-doing. This is the prayer that
is heard. Why ask God for a respite when he
has not given it? Has he not done his work,
and made man equal to his occasions, but he
must needs have recourse to him again ? God
cannot give us any other than self-help.
The workers in stone polish only their chim
ney ornaments. But their pyramids are roughly
done. There is a soberness in a rough aspect,
AUTUMN. 101
in unhewn granite, which addresses a depth in
us, but the polished surface only hits the ball of
the eye.
The draft of my stove sounds like the dash
ing of waves on the shore, and the lid sings like
the wind in the shrouds. The steady roar of
the surf on the beach is as incessant in my ear
as in tjie shell on the mantelpiece. I see ves
sels stranded, and gulls flying, and fishermen
running to and fro on the beach.
Oct. 13, 1851. The alert and energetic man
leads a more intellectual life in winter than in
summer. In summer the animal and vegetable
in him flourish more, as in a torrid zone ; he
lives in his senses mainly. In winter cold rea
son, not warm passion, has sway ; he lives in
thought and reflection. If he has passed a
merely sensual summer, he passes his winter in
a torpid state like some reptiles and other ani
mals. Man depends more on himself, his own
resources, in winter, less on what is outward.
Insects disappear for the most part, and those
animals which depend upon them, but the nobler
animals abide with man the severity of winter.
He migrates into his mind, to perpetual summer,
and to the healthy man the winter of his discon
tent never comes.
Oct. 13, 1852. p. M. To Cliffs. Fair Haven
Pond never, I think, looks so handsome as at
102 AUTUMN.
this season. It is a sufficiently clear and warm,
a rather Indian summer day, and they are gath
ering the apples in the orchard. The warmth
is required now, and we welcome and appreciate
it all. The shrub-oak plain is a deep red with
grayish, withered, apparently white-oak leaves
intermixed. The chickadee takes heart too, and
sings above these warm rocks. Birches,B hick
ories, aspens, etc., are like innumerable small
flames on the hillsides about the pond, which is
now most beautifully framed with the autumn-
tinted woods and hills. The water or lake, from
however distant a point seen, is always the cen
tre of the landscape. Fair Haven lies more
open, and can be seen from more distant points
than any other of our ponds. The air is sin
gularly fine-grained, the sward looks short and
firm. The mountains are more distinct from the
rest of the earth and slightly impurpled, seem
ing to lie up more. How peaceful great nature !
There is no disturbing sound, but far amid the
western hills there rises a pure, white smoke in
constant volumes.
Oct. 13, 1852. To Poplar Hill. Maple fires
are burnt out generally, and look smoky in the
swamps. When my eyes were resting on those
smoke-like bare trees, it did not at first occur to
me why the landscape was not as brilliant as a
few days ago. The outside trees in the swamps
lose their leaves first.
AUTUMN. 103
I see a pretty large flock of tree sparrows,
very lively and tame, pursuing each other and
drifting along a bushy fence and ditch like
driving snow. Two pursuing each other would
curl upward like a breaker in the air, and drop
into the hedge again. This has been the ninth
of these wonderful days, and one of the warm
est. I am obliged to sit with my window wide
open all the evening as well as all day. It is the
earlier Indian summer.
Oct. 13, 1859. The shad bush is leafing
again by the sunny swamp side. It is like a
youthful or poetic thought in old age. Several
times I have been cheered by this sight when
surveying in former years. The chickadee
seems to lisp a sweeter note at the sight of it.
I would not fear the winter more than the shad
bush, which puts forth fresh and tender leaves
on its approach. In the fall I will take this for
my coat of arms. It seems to detain the sun
that expands it. These twigs are so full of life
that they can hardly contain themselves. They
ignore winter. They anticipate spring. What
faith! Away in some sheltered recess of the
swamp you find where these leaves have ex
panded. In my latter years let me have some
shad-bush thoughts.
I perceive the peculiar scent of witch hazel
in bloom for several rods around, which at first
I refer to the decaying leaves.
104 AUTUMN.
British naturalists very generally apologize to
the reader for having devoted their attention to
natural history to the neglect of some important
duty.
I remember seeing in an old work a plate of
a fungus which grew in a wine-cellar and got its
name from that circumstance. It is related in
" Chambers' Journal " that Sir Joseph Banks,
having ordered a cask of wine to be placed in
a cellar in order to improve it, " at the end of
three years he directed his butler to ascertain
the state of the wine, when on attempting to
open the cellar door, he could not effect it in
consequence of some powerful obstacle. The
door was consequently cut down, when the cellar
was found to be completely filled with a fungus
production so firm that it was necessary to use
an axe for its removal. This appeared to have
grown from, or to have been nourished by the
decomposing particles of the wine, the cask
being empty and carried up to the ceiling, where
it was supported by the fungus." Perhaps it
was well that the fungus instead of Sir Joseph
Banks drank up the wine. The life of a wine-
bibber is like that of a fungus.
Oct. 13, 1860. The scientific differs from
the poetic or lively description somewhat as the
photographs which we become so weary of view
ing differ from paintings and sketches, though
AUTUMN. 105
the comparison is too favorable to science. All
science is only a makeshift, a means to an end
which is never attained. After all, the truest
description and that by which another living
man can most readily recognize a flower, is the
unmeasured and eloquent one which the sight of
it inspires. No scientific description will supply
the want of this, though you should count and
measure and analyze every atom which seems to
compose it. Surely poetry and eloquence are a
more universal language than that Latin which
is confessedly dead. In science I should say all
description is postponed till we know the whole,
and then science itself will be cast aside. But
unconsidered expressions of delight which any
natural object draws from us are something
complete and final in themselves, since all nature
is to be regarded as it concerns man, and who
knows how near to absolute truth such uncon
scious affirmations may come. Which are the
truest, the sublime conceptions of Hebrew pro
phets and seers, or the guarded statements of
modern geologists which we must modify or un
learn so fast ? A scientific description is such
as you would get, if you should send out the
scholars of the polytechnic school with all sorts
of metres made and patented to take the measure
for you of any natural object. In a sense, you
have got nothing new thus, for every object that
106 AUTUMN.
we see mechanically is mechanically daguerreo-
typed on our eyes, but a true description growing
out of the conception and appreciation of it is
itself a new fact, never to be daguerreotyped,
indicating the highest quality of the object, its
relation to man. The one description interests
those chiefly who have not seen the thing, the
other chiefly interests those who have seen it
and are most familiar with it, and brings it
home to the reader. We like to read a good
description of nothing so well as of that which
we already know the best, as our friend or our
selves even.
Gerard has not only heard of and seen and
raised a plant, but smelled and tasted it, applied
all his senses to it. You are not distracted from
the thing to the system or arrangement. In the
true natural order, the order or system is not
insisted on. Each object is first, and each last.
That which presents itself to us this moment,
occupies the whole of the present, and rests on
the very topmost point of the sphere, under the
zenith. The species and individuals of all the
natural kingdoms ask our attention and admira
tion in a round robin. We make straight lines,
putting a captain at the head and a lieutenant at
the tail, with sergeants and corporals all along
the line, and a flourish of trumpets at the begin
ning, where nature has made curves to which
AUTUMN. 107
belong their own sphere music. It is indispens
able for us to square her circles, and we offer
our rewards to him who will do it. The best
observer describes the most familiar object with
a zest and vividness of imagery as if he saw it
for the first time, the novelty consisting not in
the strangeness of the object, but in the new and
clearer perception of it.
Oct. 14, 1851. Down the railroad before sun
rise. A freight train in the Deep Cut. When
the vapor from the engine rose above the woods,
the level rays of the rising sun falling on it pre
sented the same redness, morning red inclining
to saffron, which the clouds in the western hori
zon do.
There was but little wind this morning, yet I
heard the telegraph harp. It does not require a
strong wind to wake its strings. It depends
more on its direction and the tension of the wire
apparently. A gentle but steady breeze will
often call forth its finest strains, when a strong
but unsteady gale, blowing at the wrong angle
withal, will fail to elicit any melodious sound.
In the psychological world, there are pheno
mena analogous to what zoologists call alternate
reproduction, in which it requires several gen
erations unlike each other to evolve the perfect
animal. Some men's lives are but an aspira
tion, a yearning toward a higher state, and they
108 AUTUMN.
are wholly misapprehended until they are re
ferred to or traced through all their metamor
phoses. We cannot pronounce upon a man's
intellectual and moral state until we foresee
what metamorphosis it is preparing him for.
Oct. 14, 1856. Any flowers seen now may be
called late ones. I see perfectly fresh succory,
not to speak of yarrow, a Viola ovata, some Pol-
ygala sanguined, autumnal dandelion, tansy, etc.
Oct. 14, 1857. P. M. To White Pond. An
other, the tenth or eleventh of these memorable
days. This afternoon it is warmer even than
yesterday. I am glad to reach the shade of
Hubbard's Grove. The coolness is refreshing.
It is indeed a golden autumn. All kinds of
crudities have a chance to get ripe this year.
Was there ever such an autumn? And yet
there was never such a panic and hard times
in the commercial world. The merchants and
banks are failing all the country over, but not
the sand banks, solid and warm, and streaked
with bloody blackberry vines. You may run on
them as much as you please, even as the crickets
do, and find their account in it. They are the
stockholders in these banks, and I hear them
creaking their content. You may see them on
change in any warmer hour. In these banks,
too, and such as these, are my funds deposited,
funds of health and enjoyment. Invest in these
AUTUMN. 109
country banks. Let your capital be simplicity
and contentment. I do not suspect the solvency
of these banks. I know who is the president
and cashier.
I take these walks to every point of the com
pass, and it is always harvest time with me. I
am always gathering my crop from these woods
and fields and waters, and no man is in my
way, or interferes with me. My crop is not
their crop. To-day I see them getting in their
beans and corn, and they are a spectacle to me,
but are soon out of my sight. I go abroad
over the land each day to get the best I can
find, and that is never carted off, even to the
last day of November.
Sat in the old pasture beyond the Corner
Spring woods to look at that pine wood now at
the height of its change, pitch and white. Their
change produces a very singular and pleasing
effect. They are regularly parti-colored. The
last year's leaves about a foot beneath the ex
tremities of the twigs on all sides, now changed
and ready to fall, have their period of bright
ness as well as broader leaves. They are a
clear yellow, contrasting with the fresh and
liquid green of the terminal plumes, or this
year's leaves. These quite distinct colors are
regularly and equally distributed over the whole
tree. You have the warmth of the yellow and
110 AUTUMN.
the coolness of the green. So it should be with
our own maturity, not yellow to the very extrem
ity of our shoots, but youthful and untried green
ever putting forth afresh at the extremities,
foretelling a maturity as yet unknown. The
ripe leaves fall to the ground, and become nu
triment for the green ones which still aspire to
heaven. In the fall of the leaf there is no fruit,
there is no true maturity, neither in our "science
and wisdom.
Oct. 14, 1859. To and around Flint's Pond
with Blake. A fine Indian -summer day. We
sit on the rock on Pine Hill overlooking Wai-
den. There is a thick haze almost concealing
the mountains. There is wind enough to raise
waves on the pond and make it bluer. What
strikes me in the scenery here now is the contrast
of the universally blue water with the brilliant
tinted woods around it. The tints generally
may be about at their height. The earth ap
pears like a great inverted shield painted yellow
and red, or with imbricated scales of those col
ors, and a blue navel in the middle where the
pond lies, with a distant circumference of whit
ish haze. The nearer woods where chestnuts
grow are a mass of warm glowing yellow, but on
other sides the red and yellow are intermixed.
I hear a man laughed at because he went to
Europe twice in search of an imaginary wife
AUTUMN. Ill
who he thought was there, though he had never
seen nor heard of her. But the majority have
gone further while they stayed in America, have
actually allied themselves to one whom they
thought their wife, and found out their mistake
too late to mend it. It would be cruel to laugh
at them.
Oct. 15, 1840. Men see God in the ripple,
but not in miles of still water. Of all the two
thousand miles that the St. Lawrence flows, pil
grims go only to Niagara.
Oct. 15, 1851. 8.30 A. M. Up the river in
a boat to Pelham's Pond with W. E. C. The
muskrat houses appear now, for the most part,
to be finished, though some are still rising.
They line the river all the way. Some are as
big as small haycocks. There is a wind, and
the sky is full of flitting clouds, so that sky and
water are quite unlike what they were that
warm, bright, transparent day when I last sailed
on the river and the surface was of such oily
smoothness. You could not now study the river
bottom for the black waves and the streaks of
foam. It is pleasant to hear the sound of the
waves, and feel the surging of the boat, inspir
iting, as if you were bound on adventures. It
is delightful to be tossed about in such a harm
less storm, and see the waves look so angry
and black. We see objects on shore, trees, etc.,
112 AUTUMN.
much better from the boat. From a low and
novel point of view, it brings them against the
sky, and what is low on the meadow is conspicu
ous as well as the hills. In this cool sunlight,
Fair Haven Hill shows to advantage. Every
rock and shrub and protuberance has justice
done it, the sun shining at an angle on the hills
and giving each a shadow. The hills have a
hard and distinct outline, and I see into their
very texture. On Fair Haven I see the sunlit
light green grass in the hollows where the snow
makes pools of water sometimes, and the sunlit
russet slopes. Cut three white-pine boughs op
posite Fair Haven, and set them up in the bow
of our boat for a sail. It was pleasant to hear
the water begin to ripple under the prow, telling
of our easy progress, and thus without a tack
we made the south side of Fair Haven. Then
we threw our sails overboard, and the moment
after mistook them for green bushes or weeds
which had sprung from the bottom unusually
far from shore. Then to hear the wind sough
in your sail, that is to be a sailor and hear a
land sound. ... On the return . . . the sun
sets when we are off Israel Rice's. A few golden
coppery clouds glow intensely like fishes in some
molten metal of the sky, then the small scattered
clouds grow blue-black above, or one half, and
reddish or pink the other half, and after a short
AUTUMN. 113
twilight the night sets in. The reflections of
the stars in the water are dim and elongated
like the zodiacal light, straight down into the
depths. We row across Fair Haven in the
thickening twilight and far below it, steadily and
without speaking. As the night draws on her
veil, the shores retreat, we only keep in the mid
dle of this low stream of light, we know not
whether we float in the air or in the lower re
gions. It is pleasant not to get home till after
dark, to steer by the lights of the villagers.
The lamps in the houses twinkle now like
stars; they shine doubly bright. We rowed
about twenty-four miles going and coming. In
a straight line it would be fifteen and a half.
Oct. 15, 1852. 9 A. M. The first snow is
falling (after not veiy cool weather) in large
flakes, filling the air and obscuring the distant
woods "and houses, as if the inhabitants above
were emptying their pillow-cases. Like a mist
it divides the uneven landscape at a little dis
tance into ridges and vales. The ground begins
to whiten and our thoughts to prepare for win
ter. White-weed. The Canada snapdragon is
one of the latest flowers noticed, a few buds be
ing still left to blossom at the top of its spike
or raceme. The snow lasted but half an hour.
How Father Le Jeune (?) pestered the poor
Indians with his God at every turn (they must
114 AUTUMN.
have thought it his one idea), only getting their
attention when they required some external aid
to save them from starving. Then indeed they
were good Christians.
Oct. 15, 1858. If you stand fronting a hill
side covered with a variety of young oaks, the
brightest scarlet ones — uniformly deep, dark
scarlet — will be the scarlet oaks. The next
most uniformly reddish, a peculiar dull crimson
(or salmon ?), are the white oaks. Then the
large-leaved and variously tinted red oaks, scar
let, yellow, and green, and finally the yellowish
and half-decayed brown leaves of the black oak.
Oct. 15, 1859. The chickadees sing as if at
home. Theirs is an honest, heartfelt melody.
Shall not the voice of man express as much con
tent as the note of a bird ?
Oct. 16, 1857. P. M. Up Assabet. I stop
a while at Cheney's shore to hear an incessant
musical twittering from a large flock of young
goldfinches which have dull yellow, drab and
black plumage. Young birds can hardly re
strain themselves, and, if they did not leave us,
might perchance burst forth into song in the
later Indian-summer days. Am surprised to find
an abundance of witch hazel now at the height of
its change. The tallest bushes are bare, though
in bloom ; but the lowest are full of leaves,
many of them green, but chiefly clear and hand-
AUTUMN. 115
some yellow of various shades, from a pale
lemon in the shade or within the bush, to a
darker and warmer yellow without. Some have
even a hue of crimson ; some are green with
bright yellow along the veins. This reminds
me that plants exposed turn early, or not at all,
while the same species in the shade of the woods
at a much later date assume very pure and
delicate tints.
A great part of the pine needles have just
fallen. See the pale brown carpet of them un
der this pine ; how light it lies up on the grass,
and that great rock, and the wall, resting thick
on its top and its shelves, and on the bushes and
underwood. The needles are not yet flat and
reddish, but a more delicate pale brown, and lie
up light on joggle - sticks, just dropped. The
ground is nearly concealed by them. How beau
tifully they die, making cheerfully their annual
contribution to the soil. They fall to rise again ;
as if they knew that it was not one annual de
posit alone that made this rich mould in which
pine-trees grow. They live in the soil whose
fertility and bulk they increase, and in the for
ests that spring from it.
Oct. 16, 1859. P. M. Paddle to Puffer's, and
thence walk to Ledum Swamp and Conant-
ward. A cold, clear Novemberish day. When
I get to Willow Bay, I see the new muskrat
116 AUTUMN.
houses erected, conspicuous on the now nearly
leafless shores. For thirty years I have annually
observed, about this time or earlier, the freshly
erected winter lodges of the muskrat along the
river-side, reminding us that, if we have no gyp
sies, we have a more indigenous race of puny,
quadrupedal men maintaining their ground in our
midst still. This may not be an annual pheno
menon to you, but it has an important place in
my Kalendar. So surely as the sun appears to
be in Libra or Scorpio, I see the conical winter
lodges of the muskrat rising above the withered
pontederia and flags. There will be some refer
ence to it by way of parable or otherwise in my
New Testament. Surely it is a defect in our
Bible that it is not truly ours, but a Hebrew
Bible. The most pertinent illustrations for us
are to be drawn not from Egypt or Babylonia,
but from New England. Natural objects and
phenomena are the original symbols or types
which express our thoughts and feelings. Yet
American scholars, having little or no root in
the soil, commonly strive with all their might to
confine themselves to the imported symbols alone.
All the true growth and experience, the living
speech, they would fain reject as " American
isms." It is the old error which the church, the
state, the school, ever commit, choosing darkness
rather than light, holding fast to the old and to
AUTUMN. 117
tradition. When I really know that our river
pursues a serpentine course to the Merrimack,
shall I continue to describe it by referring to
some other river, no older than itself, which is
like it, and call it a meander? It is no more
meandering than the Meander is musketaquid-
ing.
This clear, cold, Novemberish light is inspirit
ing. Some twigs which are bare, and weeds, be
gin to glitter with hoary light. The very edge
or outline of a tawny or russet hill has this hoary
light on it. Your thoughts sparkle like the
water surface and the downy twigs. From the
shore you look back on the silver-plated river.
Every rain exposes new arrow-heads. We
stop at Clamshell, and dabble for a moment in
the relics of a departed race.
When we emerged from the pleasant footpath
through the birches at Witherel Glade, the glit
tering white tufts of the Andropogon scoparius
lit up by the sun were affectingly fair and cheer
ing to behold. How cheerful these cold, but
bright, white waving tufts ! They reflect all the
sun's light without a particle of his heat, as yel
low rays. A thousand such tufts now catch up
the sun, and send to us its light, but not heat.
Light without heat is getting to be the prevail
ing phenomenon of the day now.
This cold refines and condenses us. Our
118 AUTUMN.
spirits are strong, like that pint of cider in the
middle of a frozen barrel.
The cool, placid, silver-plated waters at even
coolly await the frost. The muskrat is steadily
adding to his winter lodge. There is no need of
adding a peculiar instinct telling him how high
to build his cabin. He has had a longer experi
ence in this river valley than we.
I love to get out of cultivated fields, where I
walk on an imported sod or English grass, and
walk on the fine sedge of woodland hollows, on
an American sward. In the former case my
thoughts are heavy and lumpish, as if I fed on
turnips. In the other, I nibble ground nuts.
Oct. 17, 1840. In the presence of my friend
I am ashamed of my fingers and toes. I have
no feature so fair as my love for him. There is
a more than maiden modesty between us. I
find myself more simple and sincere than in my
most private moment to myself. I am literally
true with a witness. We should sooner blot out
the sun than disturb friendship.
Oct. 17, 1850. I observed to-day the small
blueberry bushes by the pathside, now blood-red,
full of white blossoms, as in the spring. The
blossoms of spring contrast strangely with the
leaves of autumn. The former seemed to have
expanded from sympathy with the maturity of
the leaves.
AUTUMN. 119
Oct. 17, 1856. Many fringed gentians quite
fresh yet, though most are faded and withered.
I suspect that their very early and sudden fading
and withering has nothing or little to do with
frost after all, for why should so many fresh
ones succeed still ?
As I stood looking, I heard a smart tche-
day-day-day close to my ear, and looking up
saw four or five chickadees which had come to
scrape acquaintance with me, hopping amid the
alders within three or four feet of me. I had
heard them further off at first, and they had
followed me along the hedge. They day-day 'd,
and lisped their faint notes alternately, and
then, as if to make me think they had some
other errand than to peer at me, they pecked the
dead twigs, the little top-heavy, black-crowned,
volatile fellows.
Oct. 17, 1857. What a new beauty the blue
of the river acquires seen at a distance in the
midst of the variously tinted woods, great masses
of gray, yellow, etc. ! It appears as color which
ordinarily it does not, elysian.
The trainers are out with their band of music,
and I find my account in it, though I have not
subscribed for it. I am walking with a hill be
tween me and the soldiers. I think perhaps it
will be worth while to keep within hearing of
their strains this afternoon. Yet I hesitate. I
120 AUTUMN.
am wont to find music unprofitable, a luxury. It
is surprising, however, that so few habitually
intoxicate themselves with music, so many with
alcohol. I think, perchance, I may risk it, it
will whet my senses so, it will reveal a glory
where none was seen before. No doubt these
strains do sometimes suggest to Abner, walking
behind in his red-streaked pants, an ideal which
he had lost sight of or never perceived. It is
remarkable that our institutions can stand before
music, it is so revolutionary.
Oct. 17, 1858. I think the reflections are
never purer and more distinct than now at the
season of the fall of the leaf, just before the cool
twilight has come, when the air has a finer grain,
just as our mental reflections are more distinct
at this season of the year when the evenings
grow cool and lengthen, and our winter evenings
with their brighter fires may be said to begin.
One reason why I associate perfect reflections
from still water with this and a later season may
be that now by the fall of the leaves so much
more light is let in to the water. The river re
flects more light, therefore, in this twilight of
the year, as it were, an afterglow.
Oct. 17, 1859. What I put into my pocket,
whether berry or apple, generally has to keep
company with an arrow-head or two. I hear the
latter chinking against a key as I walk. These
AUTUMN. 121
are the perennial crop of Concord fields. If
they were sure it would pay, we should see
farmers raking the fields for them.
Oct. 17, 1860. While the man that kiUed
my lynx thinks, as do many others, that it came
out of a menagerie, and the naturalists call it
the Canada lynx, and at the White Mountains
they call it the Siberian lynx, in each case forget
ting or ignoring the fact that it belongs here, I
call it the Concord lynx.
Oct. 18, 1840. The era of greatest change is
to the subject of it the condition of greatest in-
variableness. The longer the lever, the less per
ceptible its motion. It is the slowest pulsation
which is the most vital. I am independent of
the change I detect. My most essential progress
must be to me a state of absolute rest. So in
geology we are nearest to discovering the true
causes of the revolutions of the globe, when we
allow them to consist with a quiescent state of
the elements. We discover the causes of all
past change in the present invariable order of
the universe. The pulsations are so long that
in the interval there is almost a stagnation of
life. The first cause of the universe makes the
least noise. Its pulse has beat but once, is now
beating. The greatest appreciable revolutions
are the work of the light-footed air, the stealthy-
paced water, and the subterranean fire. The
122 AUTUMN.
wind makes the desert without a rustle. To
every being, consequently, its own first cause is
an invisible and inconceivable agent.
Some questions which are put to me are as if
I should ask a bird what she will do when her
nest is built, and her brood reared.
I cannot make a disclosure. You should see
my secret. Let me open my doors never so
wide, still within and behind them, where it is
unopened, does the sun rise and set, and day
and night alternate. No fruit will ripen on the
common.
Oct. 18, 1855. How much beauty in decay !
I pick up a white-oak leaf, dry and stiff, but
yet mingled red and green, October-like, whose
pulpy part some insect has eaten, beneath, expos
ing the delicate network of its veins. It is
very beautiful held up to the light ; such work
as only an insect eye could perform. Yet, per
chance, to the vegetable kingdom, such a revela
tion of ribs is as repulsive as the skeleton in the
animal kingdom. In each case, it is some little
gourmand working for another end, that reveals
the wonders of nature. There are countless oak
leaves in this condition now, and also with a
submarginal line of network exposed.
Oct. 18, 1856. Rain all night and half this
day. P. M. A-chestnutting, down turnpike and
across to Britten's. It is a rich sight, that of
AUTUMN. 123
a large chestnut tree, with a dome-shaped top,
where the yellow leaves have been thinned out
(for most now strew the ground evenly as a car
pet throughout the chestnut woods, and so save
some seed), all richly rough with great brown
burrs which are opened into several segments, so
as to show the wholesome-colored nuts peeping
forth, ready to fall on the slightest jar. The in
dividual nuts are very interesting, and of various
forms, according to the season and the number
in a burr. They are a pretty fruit, thus com
pactly stowed away in their bristly chest. Three
is the regular number, and there is no room to
spare. The two outside nuts have each one con
vex side without, and one flat side within. The
middle nut has two flat sides. Sometimes there
are several more in a burr, but this year the
burrs are small, and there are not commonly
more than two good nuts, very often only one,
the middle one, both sides of which will then be
convex, each bulging out into a thin, abortive,
mere reminiscence of a nut, all shell, beyond it.
The base of each nut, where it was joined to the
burr, is marked with an irregular dark figure on
a light ground, oblong or crescent-shaped, com
monly like a spider or other insect with a dozen
legs, while the upper or small end tapers into a
little white woolly spire crowned with a star, and
the whole upper slopes of the nuts are covered
124 AUTUMN.
with the same hoary wool which reminds you of
the frosts on whose advent they peep forth.
Within this thick, prickly burr, the nuts are
about as safe, until they are quite mature, as a
porcupine behind its spines. Yet I see where
the squirrels have gnawed through many closed
burrs, and left the pieces on the stumps. There
are sometimes two meats within one chestnut
shell, divided transversely, and each covered by
its separate brown-ribbed skin, as if nature had
smuggled the seed of one more tree into this chest.
Men commonly exaggerate the theme. Some
themes they think are significant, and others in
significant. I feel that my life is very homely,
my pleasures very cheap ; joy and sorrow, suc
cess and failure, grandeur and meanness, and
indeed most words in the English language, do
not mean for me what they do for my neighbors.
I see that they look with compassion on me, that
they think it is a mean and unfortunate destiny
which makes me walk in these fields and woods
so much, and sail on this river alone. But so
long as I find here the only real elysium, I can-
iiot hesitate in my choice. My work is writing,
and I do not hesitate, though no subject is too
trivial for me, tried by the ordinary standards.
The theme is nothing, the life is everything.
All that interests the reader is the depth and
intensity of the life exerted. We touch our
AUTUMN. 125
subject but by a point which has no breadth, but
the pyramid of our experience, our interest in it,
rests on us by a broader or narrower base ; that
is, man is all in all, nature nothing but as she
draws him out and reflects him. Give me sim
ple, cheap, and homely themes.
Oct. 18, 1859. Why can we not oftener re
fresh one another with original thoughts? If
the fragrance of the Dicksonia fern is so grate
ful and suggestive to us, how much more refresh
ing and encouraging, re-creating, would be fresh
and fragrant thoughts communicated to us from
a man's experience. I want none of his pity
nor sympathy in the common sense, but that he
should emit and communicate to me his essential
fragrance, that he should not be forever repent
ing and going to church (when not otherwise
sinning), but as it were going a-huckleberrying
in the fields of thought, and enriching all the
world with his visions and his joys.
Why flee so soon to the theatres, lecture-
rooms, and museums of the city ? If you will
stay here awhile, I will promise you strange
sights. You shall walk on water. All these
brooks and rivers and ponds shall be your high
way. You shall see the whole earth covered a
foot or more deep with purest white crystals in
which you slump or over which you glide, and
all the trees and stubble glittering in icy armor.
126 AUTUMN.
Oct. 19, 1840. My friend dwells in the east
ern horizon as rich as an eastern city there.
There he sails all lonely under the edge of the
sky ; but thoughts go out silently from me, and
belay him, till at length he rides in my road
stead. But never does he fairly come to anchor
in my harbor. Perhaps I afford no good an
chorage. He seems to move in a burnished
atmosphere, while I peer in upon him from sur
rounding spaces of Cimmerian darkness. His
house is incandescent to my eye, while I have
no house, but only a neighborhood to his.
Oct. 19, 1855. Talking with Bellew [?] this
evening about Fourierism and communities, I
said that I suspected any enterprise in which
two were engaged together. But, said he, it is
difficult to make a stick stand, unless you slant
two or more against it. Oh, no, I answered,
you may split its lower end into three, or drive
it single into the ground, which is the best way,
but men, when they start on a new enterprise,
not only figuratively, but really, pull up stakes.
When the sticks prop one another, none, or only
one, stands erect.
Oct. 19, 1856. P. M. Conantum. Now and
for some weeks is the time for flocks of spar
rows of various kinds flitting from bush to bush
and tree to tree (and both bushes and trees
are thinly leaved or bare), and from one seared
AUTUMN. 127
meadow to another. They are mingled together
and their notes even, being faint, are, as well
as their colors and motions, much alike. The
sparrow youth are on the wing. They are still
further concealed by their resemblance in color
to the gray twigs and stems which are now be
ginning to be bare.
I have often noticed the inquisitiveness of
birds, as the other day of a sparrow, whose
motions I should not have supposed had any
reference to me, if I had not watched it from
first to last. I stood on the edge of a pine and
birch wood. It flitted from seven or eight rods
distant to a pine within a rod of me, where it
hopped about stealthily and chirped awhile, then
flew as many rods the other side, and hopped
about there awhile, then back to the pine again,
as near to me as it dared, and again to its first
position, very restless all the while. Generally
I should have supposed that there was more than
one bird, or that it was altogether accidental,
that the chipping of this sparrow had no refer
ence to me, for I could see nothing peculiar
about it. But when I brought my glass to bear
on it, I found that it was almost steadily eyeing
me, and was all alive with excitement.
Oct. 19, 1858. A remarkably warm day.
74° + at 1 P. M. Ride to Sam Barrett's mill.
Am pleased again to see the cobweb drapery of
128 AUTUMN.
the mill. Each fine line, hanging in festoons
from the timbers overhead, and on the sides, and
on the discarded machinery lying about, is cov
ered and greatly enlarged by a coating of meal,
like the twigs under thin ridges of snow in
winter. It is like the tassels and dimity in a
lady's bed-chamber, and I pray that the cobwebs
may not have been brushed away from the mill
which I visit. It is as if I were aboard a man-
of-war, and this were the fine rigging, the sails
being taken in. All things in the mill wear
this drapery, down to the miller's hat and coat.
Barrett's apprentice, it seems, makes trays of
black birch and of red maple in a dark room
under the mill. I was pleased to see the work
done here, a wooden tray is so handsome. You
could count the circles of growth on the end
of the tray, and the dark heart of the tree was
seen at each end above, producing a semicircular
ornament. It was a satisfaction to be reminded
that we may so easily make our own trenchers
as well as fill them. To see the tree reappear
on the table instead of going to the fire or some
equally coarse use is some compensation for
having it cut down. I was the more pleased
with the sight of these trays, because the tools
used were so simple, as they were made by hand,
not by machinery. They may make equally
good pails with the hand-made ones, and cheaper
AUTUMN. 129
as well as faster, at the pail factory, but that in
terests me less because the man is turned partly
into a machine there himself. In the other
case, the workman's relation to his work is more
poetic. He also shows more dexterity and is
more of a man. You come away from the great
factory saddened, as if the chief end of man
were to make pails ; but in the case of the coun
tryman who makes a few by hand rainy days,
the relative importance of human life and of
pails is preserved, and you come away thinking
of the simple and helpful life of the man, and
would fain go to making pails yourself. When
labor is reduced to turning a crank, it is no
longer amusing nor truly profitable. Let the
business become very profitable in a pecuniary
sense, and so be " driven," as the phrase is, and
carried on on a large scale, and the man is sunk
in it, while only the pail or tray floats ; we are
interested in it only in the same way as the pro
prietor or company is.
Oct. 20, 1840. My friend is the apology for
my life. In him are the spaces which my orbit
traverses.
There is no quarrel between the good and the
bad, but only between the bad and the bad. In
the former case there is inconsistency merely, in
the latter a vicious consistency.
Men chord sometimes as the flute and the
130 AUTUMN.
pumpkin vine, a perfect chord, a harmony, but
no melody. They are .not of equal fineness of
tone. For the most part I find that in another
man and myself the keynote is not the same, so
that there are no perfect chords in our gamuts.
But if we do not chord by whole tones, never
theless his sharps are sometimes my flats, and
so we play some very difficult pieces together,
though the sameness at last fatigues the ear.
We never rest on a full natural note, but I
sacrifice my naturalness, and he his. We play
no tune through, only chromatic strains, or trill
upon the same note till our ears ache.
Oct. 20, 1852. The clouds have lifted in the
northwest, and I see the mountains in sunshine
(all the more attractive from the cold I feel
here), with a tinge of purple on them, — a cold,
but memorable and glorious outline. This is an
advantage of mountains in the horizon ; they
show you fair weather from the midst of foul.
Many a man, when I tell him that I have been
upon a mountain, asks if I took a glass with me.
No doubt I could have seen further with a glass,
and particular objects more distinctly ; could
have counted more meeting-houses; but this has
nothing to do with the peculiar beauty and
grandeur of the view which an elevated position
affords. It was not to see a few particular ob
jects as if they were near at hand, as I had been
AUTUMN. 131
accustomed to see them, that I ascended the
mountain, but to see an infinite variety far and
near, in their relation to each other, thus re
duced to a single picture. The facts of science
in comparison with poetry are wont to be as
vulgar as looking from a mountain with a tele
scope. It is a counting of meeting-houses.
Oct. 20, 1854. Saw the sun rise from the
mountain top [Wachusett]. Soon after sunrise
I saw the pyramidal shadow of the mountain
reaching quite across the State, its apex resting
on the Green or Hoosac mountains, appearing
as a deep-blue section of a cone there. It rap
idly contracted, and its apex approached the
mountain itself. When about three miles dis
tant, the whole conical shadow was very distinct.
The shadow of the mountain makes some min
utes' difference in the time of sunrise to the in
habitants of Hubbardston, a few miles west.
Oct. 20, 1855. I have collected and split up
now quite a pile of driftwood, rails and riders
and stems and stumps of trees, perhaps one half
or three fourths of a tree. It is more amusing
not only to collect this with my boat, and bring
it from the river on my back, but to split it also,
than it would be to speak to a farmer for a load
of wood, and to saw and split that. Each stick
I deal with has a history, and I read it as I am
handling it, and last of all, I remember my ad-
132 AUTUMN.
ventures in getting it, while it is burning in the
winter evening. That is the most interesting
part of its history. When I am splitting it, I
study the effects of water on it, and, if it is a
stump, the curiously winding grain by which it
separates into so many prongs, how to take ad
vantage of its grain, and split it most easily. I
find that a dry oak stump will split most easily
in the direction of its diameter, not at right an
gles with it, or along its circles of growth. I
got out some good knees for a boat. Thus one
half the value of my wood is enjoyed before it
is housed, and the other half is equal to the
whole value of an equal quantity of the wood
which I buy.
Some of my acquaintances have been wonder
ing why I took all this pains, bringing some
nearly three miles by water, and have suggested
various reasons for it. I tell them, in my de
spair of making them understand me, that it is
a profound secret, which it has proved, yet I did
hint that one reason was that I wanted to get it.
I take some satisfaction in eating my food, as
well as in being nourished by it. I feel well at
dinner time, as well as after it. The world will
never find out why you don't love to have your
bed tucked up for you, why you will be so per
verse. I enjoy more, drinking water at a clear
spring, than out of a goblet at a gentleman's
AUTUMN. 133
table. I like best the bread which I have
baked, the garment which I have made, the
shelter I have constructed, the fuel I have gath
ered. It is always a recommendation to me to
know that a man has ever been poor, has been
regularly born into this world, knows the lan
guage. I require to be assured of certain phi
losophers that they have once been barefooted,
footsore, have eaten a crust because they had
nothing better, and know what sweetness resides
in it. I have met with some barren accom
plished gentlemen who seemed to have been at
school all their lives, and never had a vacation
to live in. Oh, if they could only have been
stolen by the gypsies, and carried far beyond
the reach of their guardians ! They had better
have died in their infancy, and been buried un
der the leaves, their lips besmeared with black
berries, and cock robin for their sexton.
Oct. 20, 1856. I think that all spiders can
walk on water, for when last summer I knocked
one off my boat by chance, he ran swiftly back to
the boat and. climbed up, as if more to avoid the
fishes than the water. This would account for
those long lines stretched low over the water
from one grass-stem to another. I see one of
them now, five or six feet long, and only three or
four inches above the surface. It is remarkable
that there is no perceptible sag to it, weak as
the line must be.
134 A UTUMN.
Oct. 20, 1857. P. M. To the Easterbrook
country. I had gone but little way on the old
Carlisle road when I saw Brooks Clark, who is
now about eighty, and bent like a bow, hasten
ing along the road, barefooted as usual, with an
axe in his hand, in haste perhaps on account of
the cold wind on his bare feet. When he got
up to me, I saw that beside the axe in one hand,
he had his shoes in the other, filled with knurly
apples and a dead robin. He stopped and
talked with me a few moments; said that we
had had a noble autumn and might now expect
some cold weather. I asked if he had found
the robin dead. No, he said, he found it with
its wing broken, and killed it. He also added
that he had found some apples in the woods,
and as he had not anything to carry them in, he
put them in his shoes. They were queer looking
trays to carry fruit in. How many he got in
along toward the toes, I don't know. I noticed,
too, that his pockets were stuffed with them.
His old frock coat was hanging in strips about
the skirts, as were his pantaloons about his
naked feet. He appeared to have been out on a
scout this gusty afternoon to see what he could
find, as the youngest boy might. It pleased me
to see this cheery old man, with such a feeble
hold on life, bent almost double, thus enjoying
the evening of his days. Far be it from me
AUTUMN. 135
to call it avarice or penury, this childlike de
light in finding something in the woods or fields,
and carrying it home in the October evening, as
a trophy to be added to his winter's stores. Oh,
no, he was happy to be nature's pensioner still,
and bird-like to pick up his living. Better his
robin than your turkey, his shoes full of apples
than your barrels full. They will be sweeter,
and suggest a better tale. He can afford to tell
how he got them, and I to listen. There is an
old wife, too, at home, to share them, and hear
how they were obtained ; like an old squirrel
shuffling to his hole with a nut. Far less
pleasing to me the loaded wain, more suggestive
of avarice and of spiritual penury. This old
man's cheeriness was worth a thousand of the
church's sacraments and memento moris. It
was better than a prayerful mood. It proves
to me old age as tolerable, as happy, as infancy.
I was glad of an occasion to suspect that this
afternoon he had not been at work, but living
somewhat after my own fashion (though he did
not explain the axe), and been out to see what
nature had for him, and was now hastening
home to a burrow he knew of, where he could
warm his old feet. If he had been a young
man he would probably have thrown away his
apples, and put on his shoes for shame when he
saw me coming, but old age is manlier. It has
136 AUTUMN.
learned to live, makes fewer apologies, like in
fancy. This seems a very manly man. I have
known him within a few years building stone
wall by himself, barefooted.
What a wild and rich domain that Easter-
brook country ! Not a cultivated, hardly a cul
tivable field in it, and yet it delights all natural
persons, and feeds more still. Such great rocky
and moist tracts, which daunt the farmer, are
reckoned as unimproved land, and therefore
worth but little ; but think of the miles of huc
kleberries, and of barberries, and of wild apples,
so fair both in flower and fruit, resorted to by
men and beasts, Clark, Brown, Melvin, and the
robins. There are barberry bushes or clumps
there, behind which I could actually pick two
bushels of berries without being seen by you on
the other side. They are not a quarter picked
at last by all creatures together. I walk for
two or three miles, and still the clumps of bar
berries, great sheaves with their wreaths of
scarlet fruit, show themselves before me and on
every side.
Oct. 21, 1852. To Second Division Brook
and Ministerial Swamp. I find caddis -cases
with worms in Second Division Brook; and
what mean those little piles of yellow sand on
dark-colored stones at the bottom of the swift-
running water, kept together and in place by
AUTUMN. 137
some kind of gluten, and looking as if sprin
kled on the stones, one eighteenth of an inch
in diameter? These caddis-worms build a little
case around themselves, and sometimes attach a
few dead leaves to disguise it, and then fasten
it slightly to some swaying grass-stem or blade
at the bottom in swift water, and these are their
quarters till next spring. This reminds me that
winter does not put his rude fingers in the bot
tom of the brooks. When you look into them,
you see various dead leaves floating or resting
on the bottom, and you do not suspect that some
are the disguises which the caddis-worms have
borrowed.
Oct. 21, 1857. I see many myrtle birds now
about the house, this forenoon, on the advent of
cooler weather. They keep flying up against
the house and the window, and fluttering there
as if they would come in, or alight on the wood
pile or the pump. They would commonly be
mistaken for sparrows, but show more white
when they fly, beside the yellow on the rump
and sides of breast, seen near to, and two white
bars on the wings ; chubby birds.
p. M. Up Assabet. Cool and windy. Those
who have put it off thus long make haste now
to collect what apples were left out, and dig
their potatoes before the ground shall freeze
hard. Now again as in the spring we begin to
138 AUTUMN.
look for sheltered and sunny places where we
may sit. I cannot go by a large dead swamp
white-oak log this cool evening, but with no
little exertion get it aboard, and some blackened
swamp white-oak stumps whose earthy parts are
all gone. As I am paddling home swiftly be
fore the northwest wind, absorbed in my wooding,
I see, this cool and grayish evening, that peculiar
yellow light in the east, from the sun a little
before setting. It has just come out beneath a
great cold slate-colored cloud that occupies most
of the western sky, as smaller ones the eastern,
and now its rays, slanting over the hill in whose
shadow I float, fall on the eastern trees and hills
with a thin yellow light like a clear yellow wine ;
but somehow it reminds me that now the hearth-
side- is getting to be a more comfortable place
than out-of-doors. Before I get home the sun
has set, and a cold white light in the west suc
ceeded.
Is not the poet bound to write his own biog
raphy? Is there any other work for him but
a good journal ? We do not wish to know how
his imaginary hero, but how he the actual hero,
lived from day to day.
That big swamp white-oak limb or tree which
I found prostrate in the swamp was longer than
my boat, and tipped it considerably. One whole
side, the upper, was covered with green hypnum,
AUTUMN. 139
and the other was partly white with fungi.
That green coat adhered when I split it. Im
mortal wood ! that had begun to live again.
Others burn unfortunate trees that lose their
lives prematurely. These old stumps stand like
anchorites or yogees, putting off their earthly
garments, more and more sublimed from year
to year, ready to be translated, and then they
are ripe for my fire. I administer the last sac
rament and purification. I find old pitch-pine
sticks which have lain in the mud at the bottom
of the river, nobody knows how long, and weigh
them up, almost as heavy as lead, float them
home, saw and split them. Their pitch, still fat
and yellow, has saved them for me, and they
burn like candles. I become a connoisseur in
wood at last, take only the best.
Oct. 22, 1853. Yesterday toward night, gave
Sophia and mother a sail as far as the Battle
ground. One-eyed John Goodwin, the fisher
man, was loading into a handcart and conveying
home the piles of driftwood which of late he
had collected with his boat. It was a beautiful
evening, and a clear amber sunset lit up all
the eastern shores, and that man's employment,
so simple and direct (though he is regarded by
most as a vicious character), whose whole motive
was so easy to fathom, thus to obtain his win
ter's wood, charmed me unspeakably. So much
140 AUTUMN.
do we love actions that are simple. They are
all poetic. We, too, would fain be so employed,
in a way so unlike the artificial and complicated
pursuits of most men. Consider how the broker
collects his winter's wood, what sport he makes
of it, what is his boat and handcart. Postpon
ing instant life, he makes haste to Boston in the
cars, and there deals in stocks, not quite relish
ing his employment, and so earns the money
with which he buys his fuel. When by chance
I meet him about this indirect complicated busi
ness, I am not struck with the beauty of his
employment. It does not harmonize with the
amber sunset. How much more the former
consults his genius, — some genius, at any rate.
Now I should love to get my fuel so, have got
some of it so. But, though I am glad to have
it, I do not love to get it in any other way less
simple and direct. If I buy one necessary of
life, I cheat myself to some extent. I deprive
myself of the pleasure, the inexpressible joy
which is the unfailing reward of satisfying any
want of my nature simply and truly. No trade
is simple, but artificial and complex. It goes
against the grain, it postpones life. If the first
generation does not die of it, the third or fourth
does. In face of all statistics, I will never
believe that it is the descendants of tradesmen
who keep the state alive, but of simple yeomen
AUTUMN. 141
or laborers. This indeed statistics say of the
city reinforced by the country. This simplicity
it is and the vigor it imparts, that enables the
vagabond, though he does get drunk and is
sent to the house of correction so often, to hold
up his head among men. " If I go to Boston
every day and sell tape from morning till night,"
says the merchant (which we will admit is not
a beautiful action), " some time or other I shall
be able to buy the best of fuel without stint."
Yes, but not the pleasure of picking it up by
the river-side, which, I may say, is of even more
value than the warmth it yields. It is to give
no account of my employment to say that I cut
wood to keep me from freezing, or cultivate
beans to keep me from starving. Oh, no, the
greatest value of these labors is received before
the wood is teamed home, or the beans are har
vested. Goodwin stands on the solid earth.
For such as he, no political economies, with
their profit and loss, supply and demand, need
ever be written, for they will need to use no
policy. As for the complex ways of living, I
love them not, however much I practice them.
In as many places as possible, I will get my feet
down to the earth. There is no secret in Good
win's trade more than in the sun's. He is a
most constant fisherman. He must well know
the taste of pickerel by this time. When I can
142 AUTUMN.
remember to have seen him fishing almost daily
for some time, if it rains, I am surprised on
looking out to see him slowly wending his way
to the river in his oilcloth coat, with his basket
and pole. I saw him the other day fishing in
the middle of the stream, the day after I had
seen him fishing on the shore, while by a kind
of magic I sailed by him. He said he was catch
ing minnows for bait in the winter. When I
was twenty rods off, he held up a pickerel that
weighed two and a half pounds, which he had
forgotten to show me before, and the next morn
ing, as he afterwards told me, he caught one
that weighed three pounds. If it is ever neces
sary to appoint a committee on fish ponds and
pickerel, let him be one of them.
Oct. 22, 1857. P. M. To and round Flint's
Pond. Crossing my old beanfield, I see the
blue pond between the green pines in the field,
and am reminded that we are almost reduced to
the russet (i. e., pale brown grass tinged with
red blackberry vines) of such fields as this, the
blue of water, the green of pines, and the dull
reddish-brown of oak leaves. This sight of the
blue water between the now perfectly green
pines, seen over the light-brown pasture, is pecu
liarly Novemberish, though it may be like this
in early spring.
Look from the high hill just before sundown,
AUTUMN. 143
over the pond. The mountains are a mere cold
slate color. But what a perfect crescent of moun
tains we have in our northwest horizon. Do we
ever give thanks for it ? Even as pines and
larches and hemlocks grow in communities in
the wilderness, so it seems do mountains love
society. Though there may be two or more
ranges, one behind the other, and ten or twelve
miles between them, yet, if the farthest are the
highest, they are all seen as one group at this
distance. I look up northwest to my mountains,
as a farmer to his hill-lot or rocky pasture from
his door. I drive no cattle to the Ipswich hills.
I own no pasture for them there. My eyes it is
alone that wander to those blue pastures which
no drought affects. I am content to dwell here
and see the sun go down behind my mountain
fence.
Oct. 23, 1852. The milk weed (Syriaca)
now rapidly discounting. The lanceolate pods
having opened, the seeds spring out on the least
jar, or when dried by the sun, and form a little
fluctuating white silky mass or tuft, each held
by a fine thread until a stronger puff of wind
sets them free. It is pleasant to see the plant
thus dispersing its seeds.
October has been the month of autumnal tints.
The first of the month, the tints began to be
more general, at which time the frosts began.
144 AUTUMN.
There were scattered bright tints long before, but
not till then did the forest begin to be painted.
By the end of the month, the leaves will either
have fallen, or be seared and turned brown by
the frosts, for the most part.
My friend is one who takes me for what I am.
A stranger takes me for something else than
what I am. We do not speak, we cannot com
municate, till we find that we are recognized.
The stranger supposes in our stead a third per
son whom we do not know, and we leave him to
converse with that one. It is suicide for us to
become abettors in misapprehending ourselves.
Suspicion creates the stranger. I cannot abet
any man in misapprehending myself.
What men call social virtues, good fellowship,
is commonly but the virtue of pigs in a litter
which lie close together to keep each other warm.
It brings men together in crowds and mobs in
bar-rooms and elsewhere, but it does not deserve
the name of virtue.
Oct. 23, 1853. Many phenomena remind me
that now is to some extent a second spring, not
only the new springing and blossoming of flow
ers, but the peeping of the hylodes for some
time, and the faint warbling of their spring
notes, by many birds.
Oct. 23, 1855. Now is the time for chestnuts.
A stone cast against the trees shakes them down
AUTUMN. 145
in showers upon one's head and shoulders. But
I cannot excuse myself for using the stone. It
is not innocent, it is not just so to maltreat the
tree that feeds us. I am not disturbed by con
sidering that if I thus shorten its life, I shall
not enjoy its fruit so long, but am prompted to
a more innocent course by motives purely of
humanity. I sympathize with the tree, yet I
heaved a big stone against the trunk, like a
robber, not too good to commit murder. I trust
I shall never do it again. These gifts should be
accepted not merely with gentleness, but with a
certain humble gratitude. It is not a time of dis
tress when a little haste and violence even might
be pardoned. It is worse than boorish, it is crim
inal, to inflict an unnecessary injury on the tree
that feeds or shades us. If you would learn the
secrets of nature, you must practice more human
ity than others. The thought that I was robbing
myself by injuring the tree did not occur to me,
but I was affected as if I had cast a rock at a
sentient being, with a duller sense than my own,
it is true, but yet a distant relative. Behold a
man cutting down a tree to come at the fruit !
What is the moral of such an act ? Shall we
begin, old men in crime ; would that we might
grow innocent, at last, as the children of light.
Oct. 24, 1837. Every part of nature teaches
that the passing away of one life is the making
146 AUTUMN.
room for another. The oak dies down to the
ground, leaving within its rind a rich virgin mould
which will impart a vigorous life to an infant
forest. The pine leaves a sandy and sterile soil,
the harder woods, a strong and fruitful mould.
So this constant abrasion and decay of our lives
makes the soil of our future growth. The wood
we now mature, when it becomes mould, deter
mines the character of our second growth. If I
grow pines and birches, my mould will not sus
tain oak, but pines and birches, or, perchance,
weeds and brambles.
Oct. 24, 1857. P. M. To Smith's chestnut
grove. I get a couple of quarts of chestnuts.
I find my account in this long-continued mo
notonous labor of picking chestnuts all the
afternoon, brushing the leaves aside without
looking up, absorbed in that, and forgetting
better things awhile. My eye is educated to
discover anything on the ground. It is proba
bly wholesomer to look at the ground much,
than at the heavens. This occupation affords a
certain broad pause, and opportunity to start
again afterwards, turn over a new leaf.
Oct. 24, 1858. A northeast storm, though
not much rain falls to-day, but a fine driving
mizzle. This, as usual, brings the geese, and
at 2.30 P. M. I see two flocks go over, faintly
honking. A great many must go over to-day,
AUTUMN. 147
and also alight in this neighborhood. This
weather warns them of the approach of winter,
and this wind speeds them on their way.
The brilliant autumnal colors are red and
yellow, and the various tints and shades of these.
Blue is reserved to be the color of the sky, but
yellow and red are the colors of the earth-flower.
Every fruit on ripening, and just before its fall,
acquires a bright tint. So do the leaves ; so the
sky before the end of the day, and the year near
its setting. October is the red sunset sky, No
vember the later twilight. Color stands for all
ripeness and success. The noblest feature, the
eye, is the fairest-colored, the jewel of the body.
Oct. 25, 1852. P. M. Down river to Ball's
Hill in boat. Another perfect Indian-summer
day. One of my oars makes a creaking sound
like a block in a harbor, such a sound as would
bring tears into an old sailor's eyes. It sug
gests to me adventure and seeking one's fortune.
The water for some time has been clear of
weeds mostly, and looks cool for fishes. We get
into the lee of the hill near Abner Buttrick's (?)
where is smooth water, and here it is very warm
and sunny under the pitch pines. Some small
husky white asters still survive. The autumnal
tints grow gradually darker and duller, but not
less rich to my eye. And now a hillside near
the river exhibits the darkest crispy reds and
148 AUTUMN.
browns of every hue, all agreeably blended.
At the foot, next the meadow, stands a front
rank of smoke-like maples, bare of leaves, inter
mixed with yellow birches. Higher up are red
oaks, of various shades of dull red, with yellow
ish, perhaps black oaks, intermixed, and walnuts
now brown, and near the hill-top or rising above
the rest, a still yellow oak, and here and there
amid the rest or in the foreground on the
meadow, dull, ashy, salmon-colored white oaks,
large and small, all these contrasting with the
clear, liquid, sempiternal green of pines. The
sheen on the water blinds my eyes. Mint is
still green and wonderfully recreating to smell.
I had put such things behind me. It is hard to
remember lilies now.
The constitution of the Indian mind appears
to be the very opposite of the white man's. He
is acquainted with a different side of nature.
He measures his life by winters, not summers.
His year is not measured by the sun, but con
sists of a certain number of moons, and his
moons are measured not by days, but by nights.
He has taken hold of the dark side of nature,
the white man of the bright side.
Oct. 25, 1857. I am amused to see that Varro
tells us the Latin e represents the vowel sound
in the bleat of a sheep (Bee) ; if he had re
ferred instead to some word pronounced by the
AUTUMN. 149
Romans, we should not be the wiser, but we do
not doubt that sheep bleat to-day as they did
then.
Oct. 25, 1860. The thistles which I now
see have their heads recurved, which at least
saves their down somewhat from moisture.
When I pull out the down, the seed is, for
the most part, left in the receptacle (?) in reg
ular order there, like the pricks in a thimble ; a
slightly convex surface, the seeds set like car
tridges in a circular cartridge box, in hollow
cylinders, which look like circles crowded into
more or less of a diamond, pentagonal, or hex
agonal form. The perfectly dry and bristly in
volucre which hedges them round, so repulsive
externally, is very neat and attractive within, as
smooth and tender toward its charge as it is
rough and prickly externally toward the foes
that might do it injury. It is a hedge of im
bricated, thin, and narrow leaflets, of a light
brown color, beautifully glossy like silk, a most
fit receptacle for the delicate, downy parachutes
of the seed. The little seeds are kept dry under
this unsuspected silky or satiny ceiling, whose
old, weather-worn, and rough outside alone we
see, like a mossy roof. I know of no object
more unsightly to a careless glance than an
empty thistle - head, yet if you examine it
closely, it may remind you of the silk -lined
150 AUTUMN.
cradle in which a prince was rocked. That
which seemed a mere brown and wOrn-out relic
of the summer, sinking into the earth by the
roadside, turns out to be a precious casket.
Oct. 26, 1851. I awoke this morning to in
finite regret. In my dream I had been riding,
but the horses bit each other, and occasioned
endless trouble and anxiety, and it was my em
ployment to hold their heads apart. Next I
sailed over the sea in a small vessel such as the
Northmen used, as it were, to the Bay of Fundy,
and thence overland I sailed still, over the shal
lows about the sources of rivers toward the
deeper channel of a stream which emptied into
the gulf beyond. Again I was in my own small
pleasure boat, learning to sail on the sea, and I
raised my sail before my anchor, which I dragged
far into the sea. I saw the buttons which had
come off the coats of drowned men, and suddenly
I saw my dog, when I knew not that I had one,
standing in the sea up to his chin to warm his
legs, which had been wet, and which the cool
wind had numbed. Then I was walking in a
meadow where the dry season permitted me to
walk further than usual. Then I met Mr. Al-
cott and we fell to quoting and referring to
grand and pleasing couplets and single lines
which we had read in time past, and I quoted
one which in my waking hours I have no know-
AUTUMN. 151
ledge of, but in my dream it was familiar enough.
I only know that those I quoted expressed re
gret, and were like the following, though they
were not these, viz. : —
" The short parenthesis of life was sweet,"
" The remembrance of youth is a sigh," etc.
Then again the instant I awoke, methought I
was a musical instrument from which I heard a
strain die out, — a bugle, a clarionet, or a flute.
My body was the organ and channel of melody,
as a flute is of the music that is breathed
through it. My flesh sounded and vibrated still
to the strain, and my nerves were the chords
of the lyre. I awoke, therefore, to an infinite
regret, to find myself not the thoroughfare of
glorious and world-stirring inspirations, but a
scuttle full of dirt, such a thoroughfare only as
the street and the kennel, where perchance the
wind may sometimes draw forth a strain of
music from a straw.
I can partly account for this. Last evening
I was reading Laing's account of the Northmen,
and though I did not write in my journal, I re
member feeling a fertile regret, and deriving
even an inexpressible satisfaction as it were from
my ability to feel regret, which made that even
ing richer than those which had preceded it.
I heard the last strain or flourish, as I woke,
played on my body as the instrument. Such I
152 AUTUMN.
knew I had been and might be again, and my
regret arose from the consciousness how little
like a musical instrument my body was now.
Oct. 26, 1852. Walden and Cliffs, p. M. It
is cool to-day and windier. The water is rippled
considerably. As I stand in the boat, the far
ther off the water, the bluer it is. Looking
straight down, it is a dark green. Hence ap
parently the celestial blueness of those distant
river reaches, when the water is agitated so that
the surfaces of the waves reflect the sky at the
right angle. It is a darker blue than that of
the sky itself. When I look down on the pond
from the peak, it is far less blue.
The blue-stemmed and white golden-rod ap
parently survive till winter, push up and blos
som anew.
At this season we seek warm, sunny lees and
hillsides, as that under the pitch pines by Wal
den shore, where we cuddle and warm ourselves
in the sun, as by a fire, where we may get some
of its reflected as well as direct heat.
Coming by Haden's I see that, the sun setting,
its rays, which yet find some vapor to lodge on
in the clear cold air, impart a purple tinge to
the mountains in the northwest. I think it is
only in cold weather that I see this.
Oct. 26, 1853. I well remember the time
this year when I first heard the dreaming of the
AUTUMN. 153
toads. I was laying out house lots on Little
River in Haverhill. We had had some raw,
cold, and wet weather, but this day was remark
ably warm and pleasant, and I had thrown off
my overcoat. I was going home to dinner past
a shallow pool, green with springing grass, when
it occurred to me that I heard the dreaming of
the toad. It rung through and filled all the
air, though I had not heard it once, before. I
turned my companion's attention to it, but he
did not appear to perceive it as a new sound in
the air. Loud and prevailing as it is, most men
do not notice it at all. It is to them perchance
a sort of simmering or seething of all nature.
It affects their thoughts, though they are not
conscious of hearing it. How watchful we must
be to keep the crystal well that we are made,
clear. Often we are so jarred by chagrins in
dealing with the world that we cannot reflect.
Everything beautiful impresses us as suffi
cient to itself. Many men who have had much
intercourse with the world, and not borne the
trial well, affect me as all resistance, all burr
and rind, without any gentle man or tender and
innocent core left.
It is surprising how any reminiscence of a
different season of the year affects us. When I
meet with any such in my journal, it affects me
as poetry, and I appreciate that other season
154 AUTUMN.
and that particular phenomenon more than at
the time. The world so seen is all one spring,
and full of beauty. You only need to make a
faithful record of an average summer day's ex
perience and summer mood, and read it in the
winter, and it will carry you back to more than
that summer day alone could show. Only the
rarest flower, the purest melody of the season,
thus comes down to us.
When, after feeling dissatisfied with my life,
I aspire to something better, am more scrupu
lous, more reserved and continent, as if expect
ing somewhat, suddenly I find myself full of life
as a nut of meat, even overflowing with a quiet,
genial mirthfulness. I think to myself, I must
attend to my diet. I must get up earlier and
take a morning walk. I must have done with
business, and devote myself to my muse. So I
dam up my stream, and my waters gather to a
head. I am freighted with thought.
Oct. 26, 1855. P. M. To Conantum. I ex
amine some frost weed. It is still quite alive,
indeed just out of bloom, the leaves now a pur
plish brown, and its bark at the ground is quite
tight and entire. Pulling it up, I find bright
pink shoots to have put forth, half an inch long,
and starting even at the surface of the sod. Is
not this, as well as its second blossoming, some
what peculiar to this plant ? and may it not be
AUTUMN. 155
that when at last the cold is severe, the sap is
frozen and bursts the bark, and the breath of the
dying plant is frozen about it? I see a red
squirrel dash out from the wall, snatch an apple
from amid many on the ground, and, running
swiftly up the tree with it, proceed to eat it,
sitting on a smooth dead limb with its back to
the wind, and its tail curled close over its back.
It allows me to approach within eight feet. It
holds the apple between its two fore paws, and
scoops out the pulp mainly with its lower inci
sors, making a saucer-like cavity, high and thin
at the edge, where it bites off the skin and lets
it drop. It keeps its jaws moving very briskly,
from time to time turning the apple round and
round with its paws, as it eats, like a wheel in a
plane at right angles with its body. It holds it
up and twirls it with ease. Suddenly it pauses,
having taken alarm at something, then drops
the remainder of the apple in the hollow of a
bough, and glides off in short snatches, uttering
a faint, sharp, bird-like note.
I sometimes think I must go off to some wil
derness, where I can have a better opportunity
to play life, can find more suitable materials to
build my house with, and enjoy the pleasure of
collecting my fuel in the forest.
I have more taste for the wild sports of hunt
ing, fishing, wigwam building, and collecting
156 AUTUMN.
wood wherever you find it, than for butchering,
farming, carpentry, working in a factory or
going to a wood market.
Oct. 26, 1857. P. M. Round by Puffer's via
Clamshell. A driving east or northeast storm.
I can see through the stormy mist only a mile.
The river is getting partly over the meadows at
last, and my spirits rise with it. Methinks this
rise of the waters must affect every thought and
deed in the town. It qualifies my sentence and
life. I trust there will appear in this journal
some flow, some gradual filling of the springs
and raising of the streams, that the accumulat
ing grists may be ground. A storm is a new
and in some respects more active life in nature.
Larger migratory birds make their appearance.
They at least sympathize with the movements of
the watery element and the winds. I see two
great fishhawks (possibly blue herons) slowly
beating northeast against the storm, — by what
a curious tie circling ever near each other and
in the same direction, as if you might expect
the very motes in the air to be paired, two long
undulating wings conveying a feathered body
through the misty atmosphere and thus insep
arably associated with another planet of the same
species. I can just glimpse their undulating
lives. Damon and Pythias they must be. The
waves beneath, which are of kindred form, are
AUTUMN. 157
still more social, multitudinous, dvrjpifytoi/. Where
is my mate, beating against the storm with me ?
They fly according to the valley of the river,
northeast or southwest. I start up snipes also
at Clamshell meadow. This weather sets the
migratory birds in motion, and also makes
them bolder. These regular phenomena of the
seasons get at last to be (they were, at first,
of course) simply and plainly phenomena or
phases of my life. The seasons and all their
changes are in me. I see not a dead eel or
floating snake, or a gull, but it sounds my life,
and is like a line or accent in its poem. Almost
I believe the Concord would not rise and over
flow its banks again, were I not here. After a
while I learn what my moods and seasons are. I
would have nothing subtracted, I can imagine
nothing added. My moods are thus periodical,
not two days in the year alike : the perfect cor
respondence of nature with man, so that he is at
home in her !
Many sparrows are flitting past amid the
birches and sallows. They are chiefly Fringilla
hiemalis. How often they may be seen thus
flitting along in a straggling manner from bush
to bush, so that the hedgerow will be all alive
with them, each uttering a faint chip from time
to time, bewildering you so that you know not if
the greater part are gone by, or still to come.
158 AUTUMN.
One rests but a moment in the tree before you
and is gone again. You wonder if they know
whither they are bound, and how their leader is
appointed. Those sparrows, too, are thoughts I
have ; they come and go, they flit by quickly on
their migrations, uttering only a faint chip, I
know not whither or why, exactly. One will not
rest on its twig for me to scrutinize it. The
whole copse will be alive with my rambling
thoughts, bewildering me by their very multi
tude, but they will be all gone directly without
leaving me a feather.
My loftiest thought is somewhat like an eagle
that suddenly comes into the field of view, sug
gesting great things and thrilling the beholder,
as if it were bound hitherward with a message
for me. But it comes no nearer, circles and
soars away, disappointing me, till it is lost be
hind a cliff or a cloud.
Spring is brown ; summer, green ; autumn,
yellow ; winter, white ; November, gray.
Oct. 27, 1851. This morning I awoke and
found it snowing and the ground covered with
snow, quite unexpectedly, for last night it was
rainy and not cold. The strong northwest wind
blows the damp snow along almost horizontally.
The birds fly about as if seeking shelter. The
cold numbs my fingers this morning. Winter,
with its inwardness, is upon us. A man is con
strained to sit down and to think.
AUTUMN. 159
The obstacles which the heart meets with
are like granite blocks, which one alone cannot
move. She who was as the morning light to me,
is now neither the morning star nor the evening
star. We meet but to find each other further
asunder, and the oftener we meet, the more rapid
the divergence. So a star of the first magnitude
pales in the heavens, not from any fault in the
observer's eye, nor from any fault in itself, per
chance, but because its progress in its own sys
tem has put a greater distance between.
The night is oracular. What have been the
intimations of the night ? I ask. How have
you passed the night ? Good night !
My friend will be bold to conjecture. He will
guess bravely at the significance of my words.
The Ardea minor still with us. Saw a wood
cock or snipe (?) feeding, probing the mud with
its long bill, under the railroad bridge, within
two feet of me. For a long time I could not
scare it far away. What a disproportionate
length of bill !
Oct. 27, 1853. I love to be reminded of that
universal and eternal spring when the minute,
crimson-starred female flowers of the hazel are
peeping forth on the hillsides, when nature re
vives in all her pores.
Some less obvious and commonly unobserved
signs of the progress of the seasons interest me
160 AUTUMN.
most, like the loose dangling catkins of the hop-
hornbeam, or of the black or yellow birch. I
can recall distinctly to my mind the image of
these things, and that time in which they flour
ished is glorious, as if it were before the fall of
man. I see all nature for the time under this
aspect. These features are particularly promi
nent ; as if the first object I saw on approaching
this planet in the spring was the catkins of the
hop hornbeam on the hillsides. As I sailed by,
I saw the yellowish waving sprays.
Oct. 27, 1857. P. M. Up river. The third
day of steady rain. Wind northeast. I go up
the river as far as Hillard's second grove in
order to share the general commotion and excite
ment of the elements, wind and waves and rain.
A half dozen boats at the landing were full, and
the waves beating over them. It was hard get
ting out, hauling up, and emptying mine. It
was a rod and a half from the water's edge.
Now look out for your rails and other fencing
stuff and loose lumber, lest it be floated off. I
sailed swiftly, standing up, and tipping my boat
to make it keel on its side, though at first it was
hard to keep off a lee shore. It was exciting to
feel myself tossed by the dark waves, and hear
them surge about me. The reign of water now
begins, and how it gambols and revels ; waves
are its leaves, foam its blossoms. How they run
AUTUMN. 161
and leap in great droves, deriving new excite
ment from each other ; schools of porpoises and
blackfish are only more animated waves, and have
acquired the gait and gambols of the sea itself.
I hear that Sammy Hoar saw geese go over
to-day. The fall, strictly speaking, is approach
ing an end in this probably annual northeast
storm. Thus the summer winds up its accounts.
The Indians, it is said, did not look for winter
till the springs were full. The ducks and other
fowl, reminded of the lateness, go by. The few
remaining leaves come fluttering down. The
snow-fleas, as to-day, are washed out of the bark
of meadow trees, and cover the surface of the
flood. The winter's wood is bargained for and
being hauled. There is not much more for the
farmer to do in the fields. This storm reminds
men to put things on a winter footing.
The real facts of a poet's life would be of
more value to us than any work of his art. I
mean that the very scheme and form of his
poetry, so called, is adopted at a sacrifice of vital
truth and poetry. Shakespeare has left us his
fancies and imaginings, but the truth of his
life, with its becoming circumstances, we know
nothing about. The writer is reported, the
liver not at all. Shakespeare's house ! how hol
low it is ! No man can conceive of Shakespeare
in that house. We want the basis of fact, of
162 AUTUMN.
an actual life, to complete our Shakespeare as
much as a statue wants its pedestal. A poet's
life, with this broad actual basis, would be as
superior to Shakespeare's, as a lichen, with its
base or thallus, is superior, in the order of being,
to a fungus.
The Littleton giant brought us a load of coal
within the week. He appears deformed and
weakly, though actually well-formed. He does
not nearly stand up straight. His knees knock
together. They touch when he is standing most
upright, and so reduce his height at least three
inches. He is also very round-shouldered and
stooping, probably from the habit of crouching
to conceal his height. He wears a low hat for
the same purpose. The tallest man looks like a
boy beside him. He has a seat to his wagon
made on purpose for him. He habitually stops
before all doors. You wonder what his horses
think of him, that a strange horse is not afraid
of him. His voice is deep and full, but mild,
for he is quite modest and retiring, really a
worthy man, 't is said. Pity he could not have
been undertaken by a committee in season, and
put through like the boy Safford, been well de
veloped bodily and mentally, taught to hold up
his head, and not mind people's eyes or remarks.
It is remarkable that the giants have never cor
respondingly great hearts.
AUTUMN. 163
Oct. 27, 1858. Who will attempt to describe
in words the difference in tint between two
neighboring leaves on the same tree [in autumn]
or of two thousand ? for by so many the eye is
addressed in a glance. In describing the richly
spotted leaves, for instance, how often we find
ourselves using ineffectually words which indicate
faintly our good intentions, giving them in our
despair a terminal twist toward our mark, such
as reddish, yellowish, purplish, etc. We cannot
make a hue of words, for they are not to be
compounded like colors, and hence we are obliged
to use such ineffectual expressions as reddish-
brown, etc. They need to be ground together.
Oct. 28, 1853. For a year or two past, my
publisher, falsely so called, has been writing
from time to time, to ask what disposition should
be made of the copies of " A Week on the
Concord and Merrimack Eivers " still on hand,
and at last suggesting that he had use for the
room they occupied in his cellar. So I had
them all sent to me here, and they have arrived
to-day by express, filling the man's wagon, 706
copies out of an edition of 1000, which I bought
of Munroe four years ago, and have been ever
since paying for and have not quite paid for yet.
The wares are sent to me at last, and I have
an opportunity to examine my purchase. They
are something more substantial than fame, as
164 AUTUMN.
my back knows, which has borne them up two
flights of stairs to a place similar to that to
which they trace their origin. Of the remain
ing 290 and odd, 75 were given away, the rest
sold. I have now a library of nearly 900 vol
umes, over 700 of which I wrote myself. Is
it not well that the author should behold the
fruits of his labor ? My works are piled up on
one side of my chamber half as high as my head,
my opera omnia. This was authorship, these are
the works of my brain. There was just one
piece of good luck in the venture. The un
bound were tied up by the printer four years
ago in stout paper wrappers, and inscribed : —
H. D. Thoreau,
Concord River,
50 cops.
so Munroe had only to cross out " River " and
write " Mass.," and deliver them to the express
man at once. I can see now what I write for,
the result of my labors. Nevertheless in spite
of this result, sitting beside the inert mass of my
works, I take up my pen to-night to record what
thought or experience I may have had, with as
much satisfaction as ever. Indeed I believe
that the result is more inspiring and better for
me than if a thousand had bought my wares.
It affects my privacy less and leaves me freer.
Oct. 28, 1855. By boat to Leaning Hem-
AUTUMN. 165
locks. As I paddle under the hemlock bank
this shady afternoon, about three o'clock, I see
a screech-owl sitting on the edge of a hollow
hemlock stump about three feet high, at the
base of a large hemlock. It sits with its head
down, eying me with its eyes partly open, about
twenty feet off. When it hears me move, it
turns its head toward me, perhaps one eye partly
open, with its great, gleaming, golden iris. You
see two whitish triangular lines above the eye,
meeting at the bill, with a sharp reddish-brown
triangle between, and a narrow curved line of
black under each eye. At this distance and in
this light, you see only a black spot where the
eye is, and the question is whether the eyes are
open or not. It sits on the lee side of the tree
this raw and windy day. You would say this
was a bird without a neck. Its short bill, which
rests upon its breast, scarcely projects at all, but
in a state of rest the whole upper part of the
bird from the wings is rounded off smoothly,
except the horns, which stand up conspicuously
or are slanted back. After watching it ten min
utes from the boat, I landed two rods above, and,
stealing up quietly behind the hemlock, though
from the windward, I looked carefully round it,
and to my surprise, saw the owl still sitting
there ; so I sprang round quickly with my arm
outstretched, and caught it in my hand. It was
166 AUTUMN.
so surprised that it offered no resistance at first,
only glared at me in mute astonishment with
eyes as big as saucers. But erelong it began to
snap its bill, making quite a noise, and as I
rolled it up in my handkerchief and put it in
my pocket, it bit my ringer slightly. I soon
took it out of my pocket, and tying the hand
kerchief, left it on the bottom of the boat. So
I carried it home, and made a small cage in
which to keep it for a night. When I took it
up, it clung so tightly to my hand as to sink
its claws into my fingers and bring blood.
When alarmed or provoked most, it snaps its
bill and hisses. It puffs up its feathers to
nearly twice its usual size, stretches out its
neck, and with wide-open eyes stares this way
and that, moving its head slowly and undulat-
ingly from side to side with a curious motion.
While I write this evening, I see there is ground
for much superstition in it. It looks out on me
from a dusky corner of its box with its great
solemn eyes, perfectly still. I was surprised to
find that I could imitate its note, as I remember
it, by a guttural whimpering. A remarkably
squat figure, being very broad in proportion to
its length, with a short tail, and very cat-like
in the face with its horns and great eyes. Re
markably large feet and talons, legs thickly
clothed to the talons with whitish down. It
AUTUMN. 167
would lower its head, stretch out its neck, and,
bending it from side to side, peer at you with
laughable circumspection ; from side to side, as
if to catch or absorb into its eyes every ray of
light, strain at you with complacent yet earnest
scrutiny, raising and lowering its head, and
moving it from side to side in a slow and regu
lar manner, at the same time snapping its bill
smartly perhaps and faintly hissing and puffing
itself up more and more, cat-like, turtle-like,
both in hissing and swelling. The slowness
and gravity, not to say solemnity of this motion
are striking. There is plainly no jesting in this
case. General color of the owl a rather pale
and perhaps slightly reddish brown, the feathers
centred with black. Perches with two claws
above, and two below the perch. He has a slight
body covered with a mass of soft and light-lying
feathers, his head muffled in a great hood. He
must be quite comfortable in winter. Dropped
a pellet of fur and bones (?) in his cage. He
sat not really moping, but trying to sleep in a
corner of his box all day, yet with one or both
eyes slightly open all the while. I never once
caught him with his eyes shut. Ordinarily he
stood rather than sat on his perch.
Oct. 29. Up Assabet. Carried my owl to
the hill again ; had to shake him out of the box,
for he did not go of his own accord. (He had
168 AUTUMN.
learned to alight on his perch, and it was sur
prising how lightly and noiselessly he would hop
upon it.) There he stood on the grass, at first
bewildered, with his horns pricked up and look
ing toward me. In this strong light, the pupils
of his eyes suddenly contracted and the iris ex
panded, till they were two great brazen orbs
with a central spot merely. His attitude ex
pressed astonishment more than anything else.
I was obliged to toss him up a little that he
might feel his wings, and then he flapped away
low and heavily to a hickory on a hillside
twenty rods off. I had let him out on the plain
just east of the hill. Thither I followed and
tried to start him again. He was now on the
qui vive, yet would not start. He erected his
head, showing some neck narrower than the
round head above. His eyes were broad brazen
rings around bullets of black. His horns stood
quite an inch high, as not before. As I moved
around him, he turned his head always toward
me till he looked directly behind himself, as he
sat crosswise on a bough. He behaved as if be
wildered and dazzled, gathering all the light he
could, and even straining his great eyes to make
me out, but not inclining to fly. I had to lift
him again with a stick to make him fly, and
then he only rose to a higher perch, where at
last he seemed to seek the shelter of a thicker
AUTUMN. 169
cluster of sere leaves, partly crouching there.
He never appeared so much alarmed as sur
prised and astonished. At the bottom of the hol
low [stump?] on the edge of which he sat when
I first saw him yesterday, eighteen inches be
neath him, was a very soft bed of the fine green
moss, hypnum, which grows on the bank close
by, probably his own bed. It had been recently
put there.
I have got a load of great hard-wood stumps.
For sympathy with my neighbors, I might
about as well live in China. They are to me
barbarians, with their committee-works and
gregariousness.
Oct. 28, 1857. As I sat at the wall corner,
high on Conantum, the sky generally covered
with continuous, cheerless-looking slate-colored
clouds, except in the west, I saw through the
hollows of the clouds here and there the blue
appearing, and all at once a low-slanted glade
of sunlight from one of heaven's west windows
behind me fell on the bare gray maples, lighting
them up with an incredibly intense and pure
white light; then, going out there, it lit up
some white birch stems south of the pond, then
the gray rocks and the pale reddish young oaks
of the lower cliffs, then the very pale brown
meadow grass, and at last the brilliant white
breasts of two ducks tossing on the agitated
170 AUTUMN.
surface far off on the pond, which I had not de
tected before. It was but a transient ray, and
there was no sunshine afterward, but the inten
sity of the light was surprising and impressive,
a halo, a glory in which only the just deserved
to live. It was as if the air, purified by the
long storm, reflected these few rays from side
to side with a complete illumination, like a per
fectly polished mirror, while the effect was
greatly enhanced by the contrast with the dull,
dark clouds and the sombre earth. As if na
ture did not dare at once to let in the full blaze
of the sun to this combustible atmosphere. It
was a serene Elysian light, in which the deeds I
have dreamed of, but not realized, might have
been performed. No perfectly fair weather
ever offered such an arena for noble deeds. It
was such a light as we behold but dwell not in.
Late in the year, at the eleventh hour, we have
visions of the life we might have lived. In
each case, every recess was filled and lit up by
the pure white light. The maples were Potter's,
far down stream, but I dreamed I walked like
a liberated spirit in the maze ; the withered
meadow grass was as soft and glorious as para
dise. And then it was remarkable that the
light-giver should have revealed to me for all
life the heaving white breasts of those two
ducks within this glade of light. It was extin-
AUTUMN. 171
guished and relit as it traveled. Tell me pre
cisely the value and significance of these tran
sient gleams which come sometimes at the end
of the day before the final dispersion of the
clouds at the close of a storm ; too late to be of
any service to the works of man for the day,
and though the whole night after may be over
cast. Is not this a language to be heard and
understood? There is in the brown and gray
earth and rocks, and the withered leaves and
bare twigs at this season a purity more corre
spondent to the light itself than summer offers.
I look up and see a male marsh-hawk, with
his clean-cut wings, that has just skimmed past
over my head, not at all disturbed, only tilting
his body a little, now twenty rods off, with a
demi-semi-quaver of his wings. He is a very
neat flyer. I do not often see the marsh-hawk
thus. What a regular figure this fellow makes
with his broad tail and broad wings ! Does he
perceive me, that he rises higher and circles to
one side? He goes round now one full circle
without a flap, tilting his wing a little. Then
flaps three or four times, and rises higher.
Now he comes on like a billow, screaming,
steady as a planet in its orbit, with his head
bent down, but on second thought that small
sprout land seems worthy of a longer scrutiny,
and he gives one circle backward over it. His
172 AUTUMN.
scream is something like the whinnying of a
horse, if it is not rather a split squeal. It is a
hoarse, tremulous breathing forth of his winged
energy. But why is it so regularly repeated
at that height? Is it not to scare his prey,
that he may see by its motion where it is, or
to inform its mate or companion of its where
abouts? Now he crosses the at present broad
river steadily, desiring to have one or two rab
bits at least to swing about him. What majesty
there is in this small bird's flight !
Oct. 28, 1858. How handsome the great
red-oak acorns now. I stand under the tree on
Emerson's lot. They are still falling. I heard
one fall into the water as I approached, and
thought a muskrat had plunged. They strew
the ground and the bottom of the river thickly,
and while I stand here, I hear one strike the
boughs with force, as it comes down and drops
into the water. The part that was covered by
the cup is whitish woolly. How munificent is
nature to create this profusion of wild fruit, as
it were merely to gratify our eyes. Though in
edible, they stand by me longer than the fruits
which I eat. If they had been plums or chest
nuts I should have eaten them on the spot, and
probably forgotten them. They would have
afforded me only a momentary gratification, but,
being acorns, I remember and, as it were, feed
AUTUMN. 173
on them still. They are untasted fruits, forever
in store for me. I know not of their flavor
as yet. That is postponed to some unimagined
winter evening. These which we admire, but
do not eat, are nuts of the gods. When time is
no more we shall crack them. I cannot help
liking them better than horse chestnuts, , not
only because they are of a much handsomer form
but because they are indigenous. What pale
plump fellows they are ! They can afford not
to be useful to me, not to know me or be known
by me. They go their way, I go mine, and it
turns out that sometimes I go after them.
Oct. 28, 1859. Walnuts commonly fall, and
the black walnuts at Smith's are at least
one half fallen. They are of the form and size
of a small lemon, and, what is singular, have a
rich nutmeg fragrance. They are turning dark
brown. Gray says it is rare in the eastern, but
very common in the western states. Is it indi
genous in Massachusetts ? Emerson says it is,
but rare. If so, it is much the most remarkable
nut we have.
Oct. 29, 1837. A curious incident happened
a few weeks ago which I think it worth while
to record. John and I had been searching for
Indian relics, and been successful enough to
find two arrow-heads and a pestle, when, of a
Sunday evening, with our heads full of the past
174 AUTUMN.
and its remains, we strolled to the mouth of
Swamp Bridge Brook. As we neared the brow
of the hill forming the bank of the river,
inspired by my theme, I broke forth into an
extravagant eulogy of the savage times, using
most violent gesticulations by way of illustra
tion. " There on Nawshawtuck," said I, " was
their lodge, the rendezvous of the tribe, and
yonder on Clamshell Hill, their feasting ground.
This was no doubt a favorite haunt ; here on
this brow was an eligible lookout-post. How
often have they stood on this very spot, at this
very hour, when the sun was sinking behind
yonder woods, and gilding with his last rays
the waters of the Musketaquid, and pondered
the day's success and the morrow's prospects, or
communed with the spirits of their fathers gone
before them to the land of the shades ! Here,"
I exclaimed, " stood Tahatowan, and there," to
complete the period, " is Tahatowan's arrow
head." We instantly proceeded to sit down on
the spot I had pointed to, and I, to carry out
the joke, to lay bare an ordinary stone which
my whim had selected, when lo ! the first I
laid hands on, the grubbing stone that was to
be, proved a most perfect arrow-head, as sharp
as if just from the hands of the Indian fabrica
tor.
Oct. 29, 1857. There are some things of
AUTUMN. 175
which I cannot at once tell, whether I have
dreamed them or they are real, as if they were
just perchance establishing or else losing a real
basis in my world. This is especially the case
in the early morning hours, when there is a
gradual transition from dreams to waking
thoughts, from illusions to actualities. Such
early morning thoughts as I speak of occupy a
debatable ground between dreams and waking
thoughts ; they are a sort of permanent dream
in my mind. At least, until we have for some
time changed our position from prostrate to
erect, and faced or commenced some of the
duties of the day, we cannot tell what we have
dreamed from what we have actually experi
enced. This morning, for instance, for the
twentieth time, at least, I thought of that moun
tain in the easterly part of the town, where no
high hill actually is, which once or twice I had
ascended, and often allowed my thoughts alone to
climb. I now contemplate it as a familiar thought
which I have surely had for many years from
time to time, but whether anything could have
reminded me of it in the middle of yesterday,
whether I ever remembered it before in broad
daylight, I doubt. I can now eke out the vision
I had of it this morning with my old and yes
terday-forgotten dreams. My way up used to
be through a dark and unfrequented ' wood at
176 AUTUMN.
its base. (I cannot now tell exactly, it was so
long ago, under what circumstances I first as
cended, only that I shuddered, as I went along,
and have an indistinct remembrance of having
been out one night alone.) Then I steadily as
cended along a rock ridge, half clad with stunted
trees, where wild beasts haunted, till I lost my
self quite in the upper air and clouds, seeming
to pass an imaginary line which separates a hill,
mere earth heaped up, from a mountain, into a
superterranean grandeur and sublimity. What
distinguishes that summit above the earthy line,
is that it is unhandseled, awful, grand. It can
never become familiar. You are lost the mo
ment you set foot there. You know 110 path,
but wander, thrilled, over the bare and pathless
rock, as if it were solidified air and cloud. That
rocky, misty summit, secreted in the cloud, was
far more thrillingly awful and sublime than the
crater of a volcano spouting fire.
This is a matter we can partly understand.
The perfect mountain height is already thor
oughly purified. It is as if you trod with awe
the face of a god turned up, unwillingly, but
helplessly, yielding to the law of gravity. In
dreams I am shown this height from time to
time, and I seem to have asked my fellow once
to climb there with me, and yet I am constrained
to believe that I never actually ascended it.
AUTUMN. 177
Now first I recall that it rises in my mind where
lies the burying hill. You might go through
that gate to enter the dark wood. Perchance it
was the grave, but that hill and its graves are
so concealed and obliterated by the awful moun
tain that I never thought of them as underlying
it. My old way down was different, and indeed
this was another way up, though I never so
ascended. I came out, as I descended, from
the belt of wood, breathing the thicker air, into
a familiar pasture, and along down by a wall.
Often as I go along the low side of this pasture,
I let my thoughts ascend toward the mount, grad
ually entering the stunted wood (nature sub
dued) and the thinner air. Ever there are two
ways up, one through the dark wood, the other
through the sunny pasture. That is, I reach
and discover the mountain only through the
dark wood, but I see to my surprise, when I
look off between the mists from its summit, how
it is ever adjacent to my native fields, nay, im
minent over them, and accessible through a
sunny pasture. Why is it that in the lives of
men we hear more of the dark wood than of the
sunny pasture ? Though the pleasure of ascend
ing the mountain is largely mixed with awe, my
thoughts are purified and sublimed by it, as if I
had been translated.
We see mankind generally, who toil to ac-
178 AUTUMN.
quire wealth, or perhaps inherit it, or acquire it
by other accident, having recourse for relaxation
after excessive toil, or as a mere relief from idle
ennui, to artificial amusements, rarely elevating,
often debasing. I think men are commonly
mistaken with regard to amusements. Every
one who deserves to be regarded as higher than
the brute may be supposed to have an earnest
purpose, to accomplish which is the object of his
existence, and this is at once his work and his
supreme pleasure, and for diversion and relaxa
tion, for suggestion and education and strength,
there is offered the never-failing amusement of
getting a living, — never-failing, I mean, when
temperately indulged in. I know of no such
amusement, so wholesome, and in every sense
profitable, for instance, as to spend an hour or
two in a day, picking berries or other fruits
which will be food for the winter, or collecting
driftwood from the river for fuel, or cultivating
the few beans or potatoes which I want. Thea
tres and operas, which intoxicate for a season,
are as nothing compared with these pursuits.
And so it is with all the true arts of life. Farm
ing and building and manufacturing and sailing
are the greatest and wholesomest amusements
that were ever invented, for God invented them,
and I suppose that the farmers and mechanics
know it, only I think they indulge to excess
AUTUMN. 179
generally, and so what was meant for a joy be
comes the sweat of the brow. Gambling, horse-
racing, loafing, and rowdyism generally after all
tempt but few. The mass are tempted by those
other amusements, of farming, etc. By these
various pursuits your experience becomes singu
larly complete and rounded. Their novelty and
significance are remarkable. Such is the path
by which we climb to the height of our being.
Compare the poetry which such simple pursuits
have inspired with the unreadable volumes
which have been written about art. I find when
I have been building a fence or surveying a
farm, or even collecting simples, that these were
the true path to perception and enjoyment.
My being seems to have put forth new roots,
and to be more strongly planted. This is the
true way to crack the nut of happiness. If as a
poet or naturalist you wish to explore a given
neighborhood, go and live in it, that is, get your
living in it. Fish in its streams, hunt in its
forests, gather fuel from its water, its woods,
cultivate the ground, and pluck the wild fruits,
etc., etc. This will be the surest and speediest
way to those perceptions you covet. No amuse
ment has worn better than farming. It tempts
men just as strongly to-day as in the day of Cin-
cinnatus. Healthily and properly pursued, it
is not a whit more grave than huckleberrying,
180 AUTUMN.
and if it takes airs on itself as superior, there
is something wrong about it. I have aspired to
practice in succession all the honest arts of life
that I may gather all the fruits. But if you are
intemperate, if you toil to raise an unnecessary
amount, even the large crop of wheat becomes
as a small crop of chaff. If our living were
once honestly got, then it would be time to in
vent other amusements.
After reading Ruskin on the love of nature, I
think, " Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian
spring ! " He there, to my surprise, expresses
the common infidelity of his age and race. He
has not implicitly surrendered himself to nature.
And what does he substitute for her ? I do not
know, unless it be the Church of England, ques
tioning whether that relation to nature was of
so much value after all. It is sour grapes ! He
does not speak to the condition of foxes that
have more spring in the legs. The love of na
ture and fullest perception of the revelation
which she is to man, is not compatible with be
lief in the peculiar revelation of the Bible which
Ruskin entertains.
Oct. 29, 1858. The cat comes stealthily
creeping towards some prey amid the withered
flowers in the garden, which being disturbed by
my approach, she runs low toward it, with an
unusual glare or superficial light in her eye,
AUTUMN. 181
ignoring her oldest acquaintance, as wild as her
remotest ancestor, and presently I see the first
tree sparrow hopping there. I hear them also
amid the alders by the river singing sweetly, but
with a few notes.
English plants have English habits here.
They are not yet acclimated. They are early or
late, as if ours were an English spring or autumn,
and no doubt in course of time a change will be
produced in their constitutions similar to that
which is observed in the English man here.
Oct. 30, 1858. I see that Prichard's mountain
ash (European) has lately put forth new leaves
when all the old have fallen. They are four or
five inches long. But the American has not
started. It knows better.
Oct. 31, 1850. This has been the most per
fect afternoon of the year. The air quite warm
enough, perfectly still and dry and clear, and
not a cloud in the sky. Scarcely the song of a
cricket is heard to disturb the stillness.
Our Indian summer, I am tempted to say, is
the finest season of the year. Here has been
such a day as I think Italy never sees.
A fair afternoon, a celestial afternoon, cannot
occur but we mar our pleasure by reproaching
ourselves that we do not make all our days
beautiful. The thought of what I am, of my
pitiful conduct, deters me from receiving what
182 AUTUMN.
joy I might from the glorious days that visit me.
After the era of youth is passed, the knowledge
of ourselves is an alloy that spoils our satisfac
tions. I am wont to think that I could spend
my days contentedly in any retired country
house that I see, for I see it to advantage now
and without incumbrance. I have not yet im
ported my humdrum thoughts, my prosaic hab
its, into it to mar the landscape. What is this
beauty in the landscape but a certain fertility
in me? I look in vain to see it realized but
in my own life. If I could wholly cease to be
ashamed of myself, I think all my days would
be fair.
Oct. 31, 1853. P. M. By boat with Sophia to
my grapes laid down in front of Fair Haven. It
is a beautiful, warm, and calm Indian-summer
afternoon, and the river is so high over the
meadows, the pads and other low weeds so deeply
buried, and the water so smooth and glassy
withal that I am reminded of a calm April day
during the freshets. The coarse withered grass,
and the willows and button-bushes with their
myriad balls, and whatever else stands on the
brink, is reflected with wonderful distinctness.
This shore thus seen from the boat is like the
ornamented frame of a mirror. The button-
balls, etc., are more distinct in the reflection,
if I remember, because they have there for back-
AUTUMN. 183
ground the reflected sky, but the actual ones
are seen against the russet meadow. I even see
houses a mile off reflected in the meadow flood.
The cocks crow in barnyards, as if with new
lustiness. They seem to appreciate the day.
The river is three feet and more above the sum
mer level. I see many pickerel dart away as I
push my boat over the meadows. They lie up
there now. There are already myriads of snow-
fleas on the water next the shore, and on the
cranberries we pick in the wreck, as if they were
peppered. When we ripple the surface, the un
dulating light is reflected from the waves upon
the bank and bushes and withered grass. Is
not this already November, when the yellow and
scarlet tints are gone from the forest ? It is very
pleasant to float along over the smooth mea
dow, where every weed and each stem of coarse
grass that rises above the surface has another
answering to it, and even more distinct in the
water beneath, making a rhyme to it, so that
the most irregular form appears regular. A few
scattered dry and clean very light straw-col
ored grasses are a cheap and simple beauty, thus
reflected.
I slowly discover that this is a gossamer day.
I first see the fine lines stretching from one
weed, or grass-stem or rush, to another, some
times seven or eight feet distant horizontally,
184 AUTUMN.
and only four or five inches above the water.
When I look further, I find that they are every
where and on everything, sometimes forming
conspicuous fine white gossamer webs on the
heads of grasses. They are so abundant that
they seem to have been suddenly produced in the
atmosphere by some chemistry, spun out of air,
I know not for what purpose. I remember that
in Kirby and Spence it is not allowed that the
spider can walk on the water to carry his web
across from rush to rush, but here I see myriads
of spiders on the water making some kind of
progress, and at least with a line attached to
them. True, they do not appear to walk well,
but they stand up high and dry on the tips of
their toes, and are blown along quite fast. They
are of various sizes and colors, though mostly a
greenish brown or else black, some very small.
These gossamer lines are not visible unless be
tween you and the sun. We pass some black
willows now, of course, quite leafless, and when
they are between us and the sun, they are so
completely covered with these fine cobwebs or
lines, mainly parallel to one another, that they
make one solid roof, a misty roof, against the
sun. They are not drawn taut, but curved
downward in the middle, like the rigging of a
vessel, the ropes which stretch from mast to
mast, as if the fleets of a thousand Lilliputian
AUTUMN. 185
nations were collected one behind another under
bare poles ; but when we have floated a few feet
farther, and thrown the willow out of the sun's
range, not a thread can be seen on it. I landed
and walked up and down the causeway, and
found it the same there, the gossamer reaching
across the causeway, though not necessarily sup
ported on the other side. They streamed south
ward with the slight zephyr, as if the year were
weaving her shroud out of light. There were
spiders on the rail [of the causeway] that pro
duced them, similar to those on the water. The
air appeared crowded with them. It was a won
der they did not get into the mouth and nostrils,
or that we did not feel them on our faces, or con
tinually going and coming among them did not
whiten our clothes more. And yet one, with his
back to the sun, walking the other way, would
observe nothing of all this. Methinks it is only
on these very finest days, late in the autumn,
that the phenomenon is seen, as if that fine
vapor of the morning were spun into these webs.
According to Kirby and Spence, " In Germany
these flights of gossamer appear so constantly in
autumn that they are there metaphorically called
' Der Fliegende Sommer,' the flying or depart
ing summer." What can possess these spiders,
thus to run all at once to every the least eleva
tion, and let off this wonderful stream ? Harris
186 AUTUMN.
tells me he does not know what it means. Sophia
thought that thus, at last, they emptied them
selves and wound up, or, I suggested, unwound
themselves, cast off their mortal coil. It looks
like a mere frolic spending and wasting of them
selves, of their vigor, now that there is no further
use for it, their July, perchance, being killed or
banished by the frost.
Oct. 31, 1857. In the Lee farm swamp, by the
old Sam Barrett mill-site, I see two kinds of ferns
still green and much in fruit, apparently the As-
pidium spinulosum (?) and cristatum (?). They
are also common in the swamps now. They are
quite fresh in those cold and wet places, and
almost flattened down now. The atmosphere
of the house is less congenial to them. In the
summer you might not have noticed them. Now
they are conspicuous amid the withered leaves.
You are inclined to approach and raise each
frond in succession, moist, trembling, fragile
greenness. They linger thus in all moist,
clammy swamps under the bare maples and
grapevines and witch hazels, and about each
trickling spring that is half choked with fallen
leaves. What means this persistent vitality?
Why were these spared when the brakes and
osmundas were stricken down ? They stay as if
to keep up the spirits of the cold-blooded frogs
which have not yet gone into the mud, that the
AUTUMN. 187
summer may die with decent and graceful mod
eration. Is not the water of the spring improved
by their presence ? They fall back and droop
here and there like the plumes of departing
summer, of the departing year. Even in them
I feel an argument for immortality. Death is
so far from being universal. The same destroyer
does not destroy all. How valuable they are,
with the lycopodiums for cheerfulness. Green
ness at the end of the year, after the fall of the
leaf, a hale old age. To my eyes they are tall
and noble as palm groves, and always some for
est nobleness seems to have its haunt under their
umbrage. All that was immortal in the swamp
herbage seems here crowded into smaller com
pass, the concentrated greenness of the swamp.
How dear they must be to the chickadee and the
rabbit ! the cool, slowly-retreating rear-guard
of the swamp army. What virtue is theirs that
enables them to resist the frost? If you are
afflicted with melancholy at this season, go to
the swamp, and see the brave spears of skunk-
cabbage buds already advanced toward a new
year. Their gravestones are not bespoken yet.
Who shall be sexton to them ? Is it the winter
of their discontent ? Do they seem to have lain
down to die, despairing of skunk-cabbagedom ?
Mortal, human creatures must take a little re
spite in this fall of the year. Their spirits do
188 AUTUMN.
flag a little. There is a little questioning of
destiny, and thinking to go like cowards to where
the weary shall be at rest. But not so with the
skunk cabbage. Its withered leaves fall and are
transfixed by a rising bud. Winter and death
are ignored. The circle of life is complete. Are
these false prophets ? Is it a lie or a vain boast
underneath the skunk-cabbage bud pushing it
upwards and lifting the dead leaves with it?
They rest with spears advanced. It is good for
me to be here slumping in the mud, a trap cov
ered with withered leaves, to see these green
cabbage buds lifting the dry leaves in this
watery, muddy place. They see over the brow
of winter's hill. They see another summer
ahead.
Nov. 1, 1851. It is a rare qualification to
be able to state a fact simply and adequately,
to digest some experience clearly, to say " yes "
and "no" with authority, to make a square
edge. A man must see before he can say.
Statements are made but partially. Things are
said with reference to certain conventions or
institutions, not absolutely. A fact, truly and
absolutely stated, is taken out of the region
of common sense, and acquires a mythologic or
universal significance. Say it and have done
with it. Express it without expressing yourself.
See not with the eye of science, which is barren,
AUTUMN. 189
nor of youthful poetry, which is impotent. But
taste the world and digest it. It would seem as
if things got said but rarely and by chance. As
you see, so at length will you say. When facts
are seen superficially, they are seen as they lie
in relation to certain institutions, perchance. I
would have them expressed as more deeply seen,
with deeper references, so that the hearer or
reader cannot recognize them or apprehend their
significance from the platform of common life,
but it will be necessary that he be in a sense
translated in order to understand them. At first
blush, a man is not capable of reporting truth.
To do that, he must be drenched and saturated
with it. Then the truth will exhale from him
naturally, like the odor of the muskrat from the
coat of the trapper. What was enthusiasm in
the young man must become temperament in
the mature man. Without excitement, heat, or
passion he will survey the world which excited
the youth and threw him off his balance.
This on my way to Conantum, 2.30 p. M. It
is a bright, clear, warm November day. I feel
blessed. I love my life. I warm toward all
nature. The crickets now sound faintly and
from very deep in the sod. Fall dandelions look
bright still. The grass has got a new greenness
in spots. At this season there are stranger
sparrows or finches about. The skunk cabbage
190 AUTUMN.
is already pushing up again. It is a remarkable
day for fine gossamer cobwebs. Here in the
causeway, as I walk toward the sun, I perceive
that the air is full of them, streaming from off
the willows and spanning the road, all stretch
ing across the road, and yet I cannot see them
in any other direction, and feel not one.
It looks as if the birds would be incommoded.
This shimmer moving along the gossamer lines
as they are moved by the wind, gives the effect
of a drifting storm of light. It is more like a
fine snowstorm which drifts athwart your path
than anything else. If there were no sunshine,
I should never find out that they existed, I
should not know that I was bursting a myriad
barriers. Why should this day be so distin
guished ? What is the peculiar condition of the
atmosphere to call forth this activity ?
The river is peculiarly sky-blue to-day, not
dark as usual. It is all in the air.
Saw a canoe birch by road beyond the Abel
Minot house ; distinguished it thirty rods off by
the chalky whiteness of its limbs. It is of a
more unspotted, transparent, and perhaps pink
ish white than the common. Its branches do
not droop and curl down like those of the other.
There will be some loose curls of bark about it.
The common birch is finely branched, and has
frequently a snarly head ; the canoe birch is a
AUTUMN. 191
more open and free-growing tree. If at a dis
tance you see the birch near its top forking into
two or more white limbs, you may know it for a
canoe birch. I have heard of a man in Maine
who copied the whole Bible on to birch bark..
It was much easier than to write that sentence
which the birch tree stands for.
Nov. 1, 1852. Day before yesterday to the
Cliffs in the misty rain. As I approached their
edge, I saw the woods beneath, Fair Haven
Pond, and the hills across the river, which ow
ing to the mist was as far as I could see, and
seemed much farther in consequence. I saw
these between the converging branches of two
white pines a rod or two from me on the edge
of the rocks, and I thought there was no frame
to a landscape equal to this, to see between two
near pine boughs whose lichens are distinct, a
distant forest and lake, the one, frame, the
other, picture.
In November a man will eat his heart, if in
any month.
It is remarkable how native man proves him
self to the earth, after all, and the completeness
of his life in all its appurtenances. His alli
ances how wide! He has domesticated not
only beasts, but fowl, not only hens and geese
and ducks and turkeys, but his doves winging
their way to'their dove-cotes over street and vil-
192 AUTUMN.
lage enhance the picturesqueness of his sky, to
say nothing of his trained falcons, his beautiful
scouts in the upper air.
He is lord of the fowl and the brute. The
dove, the martin, the bluebird, the swallow, and
in some countries, the hawk, have attached
themselves to his fortunes.
Nov. 1, 1853. Few come to the woods to see
how the pine lives and grows and spires, lifting
its evergreen arms to the light, to see its perfect
success. Most are content to behold it in the
shape of many broad boards brought to market,
and deem that its true success. The pine is no
more lumber than man is, and to be made into
boards and houses is no more its true and high
est use than the truest use of a man is to be cut
down and made into manure. A pine cut down,
a dead pine, is no more a pine than a dead hu
man carcass is a man. Is it the lumberman who
is the friend and lover of the pine, stands near
est to it, and understands its nature best ? Is it
the tanner or turpentine distiller who posterity
will fable was changed into a pine at last ? No,
no, it is the poet who makes the truest use of
the pine, who does not fondle it with an axe, or
tickle it with a saw, or stroke it with a plane.
It is the poet who loves it as his own shadow in
the air, and lets it stand. It is as immortal as
I am, and will go to as high a heaven, there to
AUTUMN. 193
tower above me still. Can he who has only dis
covered the value of whale-bone and whale-oil
be said to have discovered the true uses of the
whale ? Can he who slays the elephant for his
ivory be said to have seen the elephant ? No,
these are petty and accidental uses. Just as if a
stronger race were to kill us in order to make but
tons and flageolets of our bones, and then prate
of the usefulness of man. Every creature is
better alive than dead, both men and moose and
pine-trees, as life is more beautiful than death.
Nov. 1, 1855. P. M. Up Assabet, a-wooding.
As I pushed up the river past Hildreth's, I
saw a blue heron arise from the shore, and
disappear round a bend in front ; the greatest
of the bitterns (Ardec&), with heavy undulating
wings low over the water, seen against the
woods, just disappearing round a bend in front ;
with a great slate-colored expanse of wing, suited
to the shadows of the stream, a tempered blue
as of the sky and dark water commingled. This
is the aspect under which the Musketaquid
might be represented at this season : a long,
smooth lake, reflecting the bare willows and
button beeches, the stubble, and the wool grass
on its tussock, a muskrat cabin or two conspicu
ous on its margin amid the unsightly tops of
pontederia, and a bittern disappearing on undu
lating wing around a bend.
194 AUTUMN.
Nov. 1, 1857. I see much witch hazel, some
of it quite fresh and bright. Its bark is alter
nate white and smooth reddish-brown, the small
twigs looking as if gossamer had lodged on and
draped them. What a lively spray it has, both
in form and color ! Truly it looks as if it would
make divining rods, as if its twigs knew where
the true gold was and could point to it. The
gold is in the late blossoms. Let them alone,
and they never point down to earth. They im
part to the whole hillside a speckled, parti-col
ored look.
Nov. 1, 1858. As the afternoons grow shorter,
and the early evening drives us home to complete
our chores, we are reminded of the shortness of
life, and become more pensive at least in this
twilight of the year. We are prompted to make
haste and finish our work before the twilight
comes. I leaned over a rail on the Walden
road, waiting for the evening mail to be distrib
uted, when such thoughts visited me. I seemed
to remember the November evening as a fa
miliar thing come round again, and yet I could
hardly tell whether I had ever known it, or only
divined it. It appeared like a part of a pano
rama at which I sat spectator, a part with which
I was perfectly familiar, just coming into view.
I foresaw how it would look and roll along and
was prepared to be pleased. Just such a piece
AUTUMN. 195
of art merely, infinitely sweet and good, did it
appear to me, and just as little were any active
duties required of me. We are independent of
all that we see. The hangman whom I have seen
cannot hang me. The earth which I have seen
cannot bury me. Such doubleness and distance
does sight prove. Only the rich and such as are
troubled with ennui are implicated in the maze
of phenomena. You cannot see anything until
you are clear of it. The long railroad causeway
through the meadows west of me, the still twi
light, the dark bank of clouds in the horizon, the
villagers crowding to the post-office, and then
hastening home to supper by candle-light, had I
not seen all this before ? What new sweet was
I to extract from it? Truly they mean that
we should learn our lesson well. Nature gets
thumbed like an old spelling book. Yet I sat
the bench with perfect contentment, unwilling to
exchange the familiar vision that was to be un
rolled for any treasure or heaven that could be
imagined. I was no nearer to or farther off from
my friends. We were sure to keep just so far
apart in our orbits still, in obedience to the laws
of attraction and repulsion, affording each other
only steady, but indispensable starlight. It was
as if I was promised the greatest novelty the
world has ever seen or shall see, though the
utmost possible novelty would be the difference
196 AUTUMN.
between me and myself a year ago. This alone
encouraged me, and was my fuel for the ap
proaching winter. That we may behold the pan
orama with this slight improvement or change,
this is what we sustain life for from year to
year. And yet there is no more tempting nov
elty than this new November. No going to
Europe or to another world is to be named with
it. Give me the old familiar walk, post-office
and all, with this ever new self, with this infinite
expectation and faith which does not know
when it is beaten. We '11 go nutting once more.
We '11 pluck the nut of the world and crack it
in the winter evenings. Theatres and all other
sight-seeing are puppet shows in comparison. I
will take another walk to the cliff, another row
on the river, another skate on the meadow, be
out in the first snow, and associate with the win
ter birds. Here I am at home. In the bare
and bleached crust of the earth, I recognize my
friend. One actual Frederick that you know is
worth a million only read of. Pray, am I alto
gether a bachelor, or am I a widower, that I
should go away and " leave my bride " ? This
morrow that is ever knocking with irresistible
force at our door, there is no such guest as that.
I will stay at home and receive company. I
want nothing new. If I can have but a tithe of
the old secured to me, I will spurn all wealth
AUTUMN. 197
besides. Think of the consummate folly of at
tempting to go away from here. Here are all
the friends I ever had or shall have, and as
friendly as ever. Why, I never had a quarrel
with a friend, but it was just as sweet as unan
imity could be. I do not think we budge an
inch forward or backward in relation to our
friends. How many things can you go away
from ? They see the comet from the northwest
coast just as plainly as we do, and the same
stars through its tail. Take the shortest way
round and stay at home. A man dwells in his
native valley like a corolla in its calyx, like an
acorn in its cup. Here, of course, is all that
you love, all that you expect, all that you are.
Here is your bride-elect, as close to you as she
can be got. Here is all the best and the worst
you can imagine. What more do you want ?
Foolish people think that what they imagine is
somewhere else. That stuff is not made in any
factory but their own.
JVov. 1, 1860. A perfect Indian summer
day, wonderfully warm, 72° + at 1 P. M., prob
ably warmer at 2. The butterflies are out
again. I see the common yellow one, and the
Vanessa Antiopa, also yellow-winged grasshop
pers with blackish eyes.
Nov. 2, 1840. It is well said that the " atti
tude of inspection is prone." The soul does
198 AUTUMN.
not inspect, but behold. Like the lily, or the
crystal, or the rock, it looks in the face of the
sky. Francis Howell says that in garrulous
persons " the supply of thought seems never
to rise much above the level of its exit." Con
sequently their thoughts issue in no jets, but
incessantly dribble. In those who speak rarely,
but to the purpose, the reservoir of thought is
many feet higher than its issue. It takes the
pressure of one hundred atmospheres to make
one jet of eloquence.
Nov. 2, 1851. Saw a canoe birch beyond
Nawshawtuck, growing out of the middle of a
white-pine stump which still showed the marks
of the axe ; sixteen inches in diameter at its
bottom, or at two feet from the ground where
it had first taken root in the stump.
Nov. 2, 1852. Tall buttercups, red clover,
houstonias, Polygonum aviculare, still. The
month of chickadees and new swollen buds. At
long intervals I see or hear a robin still.
Nov. 2, 1853. The beech leaves have all
fallen except some about the lower part of the
trees, and they make a fine thick bed on the
ground. They are very beautiful, fine and per
fect leaves, unspotted, not eaten by insects, of a
handsome, clear leather color, like a book bound
in calf, crisp and elastic. They cover the ground
so perfectly and cleanly as to tempt you to
AUTUMN. 199
recline on it, and admire the beauty of the
smooth boles from that position, covered with
lichens of various colors, green, etc. They im
press you as full of health and vigor, so that
their bark can hardly contain their spirits, but
lies in folds or wrinkles about their ankles like
a sack, with the embonpoint, wrinkles of fat, of
infancy.
Nov. 2, 1854. P. M. By boat to Clamshell.
I see larks hovering over the meadow, and hear a
faint note or two, and a pleasant note from tree
sparrows (?). Sailing past the bank above the
railroad, close to the shore on the east side, just
before a clear sunset, I see a fainter shadow of
the boat, sail, myself, paddle, etc., directly above
and upon the first, on the bank. What makes
the second ? I at length discovered that it was
the reflected sun which cast a higher shadow
like the true one. As I moved to the west side,
the upper shadow grew larger and less percep
tible, and at last when I was so near the west
shore that I could not see the reflected sun, it
disappeared, but then there appeared one upside
down in its place !
Nov. 2, 1857. P. M. To Bateman's Pond.
It is very pleasant and cheerful nowadays,
when the brown and withered leaves strew the
ground and almost every plant is fallen or
withered, to come upon a patch of polypody (as
200 AUTUMN.
in abundance on hillside between Calla swamp
and Bateman's Pond) on some rocky hillside
in the woods, where in the midst of dry and
rustling leaves, defying frost, it stands so freshly
green and full of life. The mere greenness,
which was not remarkable in the summer, is pos
itively interesting now. My thoughts are with
the polypody a long time after my body has
passed. The brakes, the sarsaparilla, the os-
mundas, the Solomon's-seals, the lady's-slippers,
etc., have long since withered and fallen. The
huckleberries and blueberries, too, have lost
their leaves. The forest floor is covered with a
thick coat of moist brown leaves, but what is
that perennial and spring-like verdure that
clothes the rocks, of small green plumes point
ing various ways ? It is the cheerful community
of the polypody. It survives at least as the
type of vegetation, to remind us of the spring
which shall not fail. These are the green pas
tures where I browse now. Why is not this
form copied by our sculptors instead of the
foreign acanthus leaves and bays ? How fit for
a tuft about the base of a column ! The sight
of this unwithering green leaf excites me like
red at some seasons. Are not wood-frogs the
philosophers who frequent these groves? Me-
thinks I imbibe a cool, composed, frog-like phi
losophy when I behold them. The form of the
AUTUMN. 201
polypody is strangely interesting, it is even out
landish. Some forms, though common in our
midst, are thus perennially foreign as the growth
of other latitudes. We all feel the ferns to be
further from us essentially and sympathetically
than the pha3nogamous plants, the roses and
weeds, for instance. It needs no geology nor
botany to assure us of that. The bare outline
of the polypody thrills me strangely. It only
perplexes me. Simple as it is, it is as strange
as an oriental character. It is quite indepen
dent of my race and of the Indian, and of all
mankind. It is a fabulous, mythological form,
such as prevailed when the earth and air and
water were inhabited by those extinct fossil
creatures that we find. It is contemporary
with them, and affects us somewhat as the
sight of them might do. Crossed over that high,
flat-backed, rocky hill, where the rocks, as usual
thereabouts, stand on their edges, and the grain,
running by compass east-northeast and west-
southwest, is frequently kinked up in a curi
ous manner, reminding me of a curly head.
Call the hill Curly-pate.
Eeturning I see the red oak on R. W. E.'s
shore reflected in the bright sky crater. In the
reflection, the tree is black against the clear
whitish sky, though as I see it against the oppo
site woods, it is a warm greenish yellow. But
202 AUTUMN.
the river sees it against the bright sky and
hence the reflection is like ink. The water tells
me how it looks to it, seen from below.
I think that most men, as farmers, hunters,
fishers, etc., walk along a river bank, or paddle
along its stream without seeing the reflections.
Their minds are not enough abstracted from the
surface, from surfaces generally. It is only a
reflecting mind that sees reflections. I am
aware often that I have been occupied with shal
low and commonplace thoughts, looking for
something superficial, when I did not see the
most glorious reflections, though exactly in the
line of my vision. If the fisherman were look
ing at the reflection, he would not know when
he had a nibble. I know from my own expe
rience that he may cast his line right over the
most elysian landscape and sky, and not catch
the slightest notion of them. You must be in
an abstract mood to see reflections, however dis
tinct. I was even startled by the sight of that
reflected red oak, as if it were a black water-
spirit. When we are enough abstracted, the
opaque earth itself reflects images to us, that is,
we are imaginative, see visions.
Nov. 3, 1839. If one would reflect, let him
embark on some placid stream, and float with
the current. He cannot resist the muse. As
we ascend the stream, plying the paddle with
AUTUMN. 203
might and main, snatched and impetuous
thoughts course through the brain. We dream
of conflict, power and grandeur ; but turn the
prow down stream, and rock, tree, kine, knoll,
assuming new and varying positions, as wind
and water shift the scene, favor the liquid lapse
of thought, far-reaching and sublime, but ever
calm and gently undulating.
Nov. 3, 1840. The truth is only contained,
never withheld, as a feudal castle may be the
headquarters of hospitality, though the portal
is but a span in the circuit of the wall. So of
the three envelopes of the cocoanut, one is al
ways so soft that it may be pierced with a thorn,
and the traveler is grateful for the thick shell
which held the liquor so faithfully.
Nov. 3, 1853. I make it my business to ex
tract from Nature whatever nutriment she can
furnish .me, though at the risk of endless itera
tion. I milk the sky and the earth.
A man of many ideas and associations must
pine in the woods. At the extreme north, the
voyagers have to dance and act plays for employ
ment. There is not enough of the garden in
the wilderness, though I love to see a man some
times from whom the usnea will hang as natur
ally as from a spruce. Our woods and fields are
the perfection of parks and groves, and gardens
and grottoes and arbors, and paths and parterres,
204 AUTUMN.
and vistas and landscapes. They are the natu
ral consequence of what art and refinement we
as a people have. They are the common which
each village possesses, the true paradise, in
comparison with which all elaborately and will
fully wealth-constructed parks and gardens are
paltry imitations. No other creature effects
such changes in nature as man. He changes by
his presence the nature of the very trees. The
poet's is not a logger's path, but a woodman's.
The pioneer and logger have preceded him, and
banished decaying wood and the spongy mosses
which feed on it, and built hearths, and human
ized nature for him.
Nov. 3, 1857. As I return from the Boulder
Field, I see, between two of the boulders which
are a dozen rods from me, a dozen feet high and
nearly as much apart, the now winter-colored —
that is, reddish (of oak leaves) — horizon of
hills with its few white houses, four or five miles
distant southward, as a landscape within the
frame of a picture. But what a picture-frame !
These two great slumbering masses of rock, re
posing like a pair of mastodons on the surface of
the pasture, completely shutting out a mile of the
horizon on each side, while between their adja
cent sides, which are nearly perpendicular, I
look to the now purified, dry, reddish, leafy hori
zon, with a faint tinge of blue from the distance.
AUTUMN. 205
To see a remote landscape between two near
rocks !. I want no other gilding to my picture
frame. There they lie as perchance they tum
bled and split from off an iceberg. What
better frame would you have ? The globe itself,
here named pasture, for ground and foreground,
two great boulders for the sides of the frame,
and the sky itself for the top. And for artist
and subject, God and Nature ! Such pictures
cost nothing but eyes, and it will not bankrupt
me to own them. They were not stolen by
any conqueror as spoils of war, and none can
doubt but they are really the works of an old
master. What more, pray, will you see between
any two slips of gilded wood in that pasture you
call Europe and browse in sometimes? It is
singular that several of these rocks should be
thus split into twins. Even very low ones, just
appearing above the surface, are divided and
parallel, having a path between them.
Nov. 3, 1858. The jay is the bird of October.
I have seen it repeatedly flitting amid the bright
leaves, of a different color from them all, and
equally bright, taking its flight from grove to
grove. It, too, with its bright color, stands for
some ripeness in the bird harvest ; and its
scream ! it is as if it blew on the edge of an
October leaf. It is never more in its element
and at home than when flitting amid these bril-
206 AUTUMN.
liant colors. No doubt it delights in bright
color, and so has begged for itself a brilliant
coat. It is not gathering seeds from the sod,
too busy to look around, while fleeing the coun
try. It is wide awake to what is going on, on
the qui vive. It flies to some bright tree and
bruits its splendors abroad.
At base of Anursnack I find one or two
fringed gentians yet open, but even the stems
are generally killed.
How long we follow an illusion ! On meeting
that one whom I call my friend, I find that I
had imagined something that was not there. I
am sure to depart sadder than I came. Nothing
makes me so dejected as to have met my friends,
for they make me doubt if it is possible to have
any friends. I feel what a fool I am. I cannot
conceive of persons more strange to me than
they actually are ; not thinking, not believing,
not doing as I do ; interrupted by me. My only
distinction must be that I am the greatest bore
they ever had. Not in a single thought agreed,
regularly balking one another. But when I get
far away, my thoughts return to them. That is
the way I can visit them. Perhaps it is unac
countable to me why I care for them. Thus I
am taught that my friend is not an actual per
son. When I have withdrawn and am alone, I
forget the actual person, and remember only my
AUTUMN. 207
ideal. Then I have a friend again. I am not
so ready to perceive the illusion that is in Nature.
I certainly come nearer, to say the least, to an
actual and joyful intercourse with her. Every
day I have more or less communion with her,
as I think. At least, I do not feel as if I
must withdraw out of nature. I feel like a wel
come guest. Yet, strictly speaking, the same
must be true of nature and of man ; our ideal
is the only real. It is not the finite and tem
poral that satisfies or concerns us in either
case.
I associate the idea of friendship, methinks,
with the person the most foreign to me. This
illusion is perpetuated like superstition in a
country long after civilization has been reached.
We are attracted toward a particular person, but
no one has discovered the laws of this attraction.
When I come nearest to that one actually, I am
wont to be surprised at my selection. It may
be enough that we have met some time, and now
can never forget it. Some time or other we
paid each other this wonderful compliment,
looked largely, humanely, divinely on one an
other, and now are fated to be acquaintances
forever. In the case of nature, I am not so con
scious of this unsatisfied yearning.
Nov. 3, 1861. After a violent easterly storm
in the night, which clears at noon, I notice that
208 AUTUMN.
the surface of the railroad causeway composed of
gravel is singularly marked, as if stratified, like
some slate rocks on their edges, so that I can
tell within a small fraction of a degree from
what quarter the rain came. These lines, as it
were of stratification, are perfectly paraUel and
straight as a ruler diagonally across the flat sur
face of the causeway for its whole length. Be
hind each little pebble, as a protecting boulder
one eighth or one tenth of an inch in diameter,
extends northwest a ridge of sand, an inch or
more, which it has protected from being washed
away, while the heavy drops driven almost hori
zontally have washed out a furrow on each side,
and on all sides are these ridges, half an inch
apart and perfectly paraUel. All this is per
fectly distinct to an observant eye, and yet could
easily pass unnoticed by most. Thus each wind
is self-registering.
Nov. 4, 1840. By your few words, show how
insufficient would be many words. If, after
conversation, I would reinstate my thought in its
primary dignity and authority, I have recourse
again to my first simple and concise statement.
In breadth we may be patterns of conciseness,
but in depth we may well be prolix.
Dr. Ware, Jr., said to-day in his speech at
the meeting-house, " There are these three, sym
pathy, faith, patience ; " then proceeding in true
AUTUMN. 209
ministerial style, " and the greatest of these is,"
but for a moment he was at a loss, and became
a listener along with his audience, and concluded
with, " Which is it ? I don't know, pray take
them all, brethren, and God help you."
Nov. 4, 1851. To Saw Mill Brook by turn
pike, returning by Walden. It was quite a dis
covery when I first came upon this brawling
mountain stream in Concord woods, for some
fifty or sixty rods of its course as much ob
structed by rocks, rocks out of all proportion to
its tiny stream, as a brook can well be ; and the
rocks are bared throughout the wood on either
side, as if a torrent had anciently swept through
here, so unlike the after character of the stream.
Who would have thought that in tracing it up
from where it empties into the larger Mill Brook
in the open peat meadows, it would conduct him
to such a headlong and impetuous youth. Per
chance it should be called a " force." It sug
gests what various moods may attach to the same
character. Ah, if I but knew that some minds,
which flow so muddily in the lowland portion of
their course, where they cross the highways,
tumbled thus impetuously and musically, mixing
themselves with the air in foam, but a little way
back in the woods ! that these dark and muddy
pools where only the pout and the leech are to
be found, issued from pure trout streams higher
210 AUTUMN.
up ! that the man's thoughts ever flowed as
sparkling mountain water, that trout there loved
to glance through his dimples, where the witch-
hazel hangs over his stream! This stream is
here sometimes quite lost amid the rocks, which
appear as if they had been arched over it, but
which it in fact has undermined and found its
way beneath, and they have merely fallen arch
wise, as they were undermined. It is truly a
raw and gusty day, and I hear a tree creak
sharply like a bird, a phoebe. The hypericums
stand red or lake over the brook. The jays with
their scream are at home in the scenery. I see
where trees have spread themselves over the
rocks in a scanty covering of soil, been under
mined by the brook, then blown over, and, as they
fell, lifted and carried with them all the soil,
together with considerable rocks. So from time
to time by these natural levers rocks are re
moved from the middle of the stream to the
shore. The slender chestnuts, maples, elms,
and white ash trees, which last are uncommonly
numerous here, are now all bare of leaves, and a
few small hemlocks, with their now thin but
unmixed and fresh green foliage, stand over and
cheer the stream, and remind me of winter, the
snows which are to come and drape them and
contrast with their green, and the chickadees
that are to flit and lisp amid them. Ah, the
AUTUMN. 211
beautiful tree, the hemlock, with its green can
opy, under which little grows, not exciting the
cupidity of the carpenter, whose use most men
have not discovered. I know of some memora
ble ones worth walking many miles to see. These
little cheerful hemlocks, the lisp of chickadees
seems to come from them now, each standing
with its foot on the very edge of the stream,
reaching sometimes part way over its channel,
and here and there one has lightly stepped
across. These evergreens are plainly as much
for shelter for the birds as for anything else.
The fallen leaves are so thick they almost fill
the bed of the stream and choke it. I hear the
runnel gurgling under ground. As if the busy
rill had ever tossed these rocks about ! these
storied rocks with their fine lichens and some
times red stains as of Indian blood on them.
There are a few bright ferns lying flat by the
sides of the brook, but it is cold, cold, withering
to all else. A whitish lichen on the witch-hazel
rings it here. I glimpse the frizzled tail of a
red squirrel with a chestnut in its mouth, on a
white pine.
The ants appear to be gone into winter quar
ters. Here are two bushels of fine gravel, piled
up in a cone, overpowering the grass, which
tells of a corresponding cavity.
Nov. 4, 1852. Autumnal dandelion and yar-
212 AUTUMN.
row. Must be out of doors enough to get ex
perience of wholesome reality, as a ballast to
thought and sentiment. Health requires this
relaxation, this aimless life, this life in the
present. Let a man have thought what he will
of Nature in the house, she will still be novel
out-doors. I keep out of doors for the sake of
the mineral, vegetable, and animal in me.
How precious a fine day early in the spring ;
less so in the fall, less still in the summer and
winter.
My thought is a part of the meaning of the
world, and hence I use a part of the world as a
symbol to express my thought.
Nov. 4, 1855. It takes a savage or wild
taste to appreciate a wild apple. I remember
two old maids to whose house I enjoyed carry
ing a purchaser to talk about buying their
farm in the winter, because they offered us wild
apples, though with an unnecessary apology for
their wildness.
Nov. 4, 1857. To Pine Hill via Spanish
Brook. I leave the railroad at Walden Cross
ing, and follow the path to Spanish Brook.
How swift Nature is to repair the damage that
man does ! When he has cut down a tree, and
left only a white-topped and bleeding stump, she
comes at once to the rescue with her chemistry,
and covers it decently with a first coat of gray,
AUTUMN. 213
and in course of time she adds a thick coat of
green-cup and bright coxcomb lichens, and it
becomes an object of new interest to the lover
of nature ! Suppose it were always to remain
a raw stump instead ! It becomes a shelf on
which this humble vegetation spreads and dis
plays itself, and we forget the death of the
larger in the life of the less.
I see in the path some rank thimble-berry
shoots covered very thickly with their peculiar
hoary bloom. It is only rubbed off in a few
places down to the purple skin, by some passing
hunter perchance. It is a very singular and
delicate outer coat surely for a plant to wear.
I find that I can write my name on it with a
pointed stick very distinctly, each stroke, however
fine, going down to the purple. It is a new kind
of enameled card. What is this bloom and what
purpose does it serve ? Is there anything anal
ogous in animated nature? It is the coup de
grace, the last touch and perfection of any work,
a thin elysian veil cast over it, through which
it may be viewed. It is breathed on it by the
artist, and thereafter his work is not to be
touched without injury. It is the evidence of a
ripe and completed work on which the unex
hausted artist has breathed out of his super
fluous genius. If it is a poem, it must be in
vested with a similar bloom by the imagination
214 AUTUMN.
of the reader. It is the subsidence of superflu
ous ripeness, like a fruit preserved in its own
sugar. It is the handle by which the imagi
nation grasps it.
I climb Pine Hill just as the sun is setting
this cool evening. As I sit with my back to a
thick oak sprout whose leaves still glow with
life, Walden lies, an oblong figure, below, end
wise toward me. Its surface is slightly rippled,
and dusky prolonged reflections extend wholly
across its length, or half a mile. (I sit high.)
The sun is once or twice its diameter above the
horizon, and the mountains north of it stand out
grand and distinct, a decided purple. But when
I look critically, I distinguish a whitish mist
(such is the color of the denser air) about their
lower parts, while their tops are dark blue. (So
the mountains have their bloom, and is not the
bloom on fruits equivalent to that blue veil of
air which distance gives to many objects ?) I
see one glistening reflection on the dusky and
leafy northwestern earth, seven or eight miles
off, betraying a window there, though no house
can be seen. It twinkles incessantly as from a
waving surface, owing probably to the undula
tion of the air. Now that the sun is actually
setting, the mountains are dark blue from top to
bottom. As usual, a small cloud attends the
sun to the portals of the day, and reflects his
AUTUMN. 215
brightness to us now that he is gone. But those
grand and glorious mountains, how impossible to
remember daily that they are there, and to live
accordingly. They are meant to be a perpetual
reminder to us, pointing out the way.
Nov. 4, 1858. On the 1st, when I stood on
Poplar Hill, I saw a man far off by the edge of
the river, splitting billets off a stump. Suspect
ing who it was, I took out my glass, and beheld
Goodwin, the one-eyed Ajax, in his short blue
frock, short and square-bodied, as broad as for
his height he can afford to be, getting his win
ter's wood, for this is one of the phenomena of
the season. As surely as the ants which he dis
turbs go into winter quarters in the stump when
the weather becomes cool, so does Goodwin re
visit the stumpy shores with his axe. As usual,
his powder flask peeped out from a pocket on
his breast, and his gun was slanted over a stump
near by, and his boat lay a little farther along.
He had been at work laying wall still farther
off, and now, near the end of the day, he took
himself to those pursuits which he loved better
still. It would be no amusement to me to see a
gentleman buy his winter wood. It is, to see
Goodwin get his. I helped him tip over a stump
or two. He said the owner of the land had
given him leave to get them out, but it seemed
to me a condescension for him to ask any man's
216 AUTUMN.
leave to grub up these stumps. The stumps to
those who can use them, I say, to those who will
split them. He might as well ask leave of the
farmer to shoot the musquash and the meadow
hen. I might as well ask leave to look at the
landscape. Near by were large hollows in the
ground, now grassed over, where he had got out
white-oak stumps in previous years. But strange
to say, the town does not like to have him get
his fuel in this way. They would rather the
stumps should rot in the ground, or be floated
down stream to the sea. They have, almost
without dissent, agreed on a different mode of
living, with their division of labor. They would
have him stick to laying wall, and buy corded
wood for fuel as they do. He has drawn up an
old bridge sleeper, and cut his name on it for
security, and now he gets into his boat and
pushes off, saying he will go and see what Mr.
Musquash is about.
Nov. 5, 1839. ^Eschylus. There was one
man who lived his own healthy Attic life in
those days. His words that have come down to
us give evidence that their speaker was a seer in
his day and generation. At this day they owe
nothing to their dramatic form, nothing to stage
machinery and the fact that they were spoken
under these or those circumstances. All dis
play of art for the gratification of a factitious
AUTUMN. 217
taste, is silently passed by to come at the least
particle of absolute and genuine thought they
contain. The reader will be disappointed, how
ever, who looks for traits of a rare wisdom or
eloquence, and will have to solace himself, for
the most part, with the poet's humanity, and
what it was in him to say. He will discover
that, like every genius, he was a solitary liver
and worker in his day.
We are accustomed to say that the common-
sense of this age belonged to the seer of the last,
as if time gave us any vantage ground. But not
so ; I see not but genius must ever take an equal
start. . . . Common-sense is not so familiar with
any truth, but genius will represent that truth
in a strange light to it. Let the seer bring his
broad eye down to the most stale and trivial
fact, and he will make you believe it a new
planet in the sky.
We are not apt to remember that we grow.
It is curious to reflect how the maiden waits
patiently and confidingly as the tender houstonia
of the meadow for the slowly revolving years to
work their will with her, to perfect and ripen
her, like it to be fanned by the wind, watered by
the rain, shined on by the sun, as if she, too,
were a plant drawing in sustenance by a thou
sand roots and fibres. These young buds of
mankind in the street are like buttercups in the
meadows, surrendered to nature as they.
218 AUTUMN.
Nov. 5, 1840. Truth is as vivacious, and will
spread itself as fast, as the fungi, which you can
by no means annihilate with your heel, for their
sporules are so infinitely numerous and subtle as
to resemble " thin smoke, so light that they may
be raised into an atmosphere, and dispersed in so
many ways by the attraction of the sun, by in
sects, wind, elasticity, adhesion, etc. ; that it is
difficult to conceive a place from which they may
be excluded."
Nov. 5, 1853. Most of the muskrat cabins
were lately covered by the flood, but now that it
is gone down in a great measure, I notice that
they have not been washed away or much in
jured, as a heap of manure would have been,
they are so artificially constructed ; moreover,
for the most part, they are protected as well as
concealed by the button-bushes, willows, or weeds
about them. What exactly are they for ? This
is not the breeding season of the muskrat. I
think they are merely an artificial bank or air
chamber near the water, houses of refuge. But
why do they need them more at this season than
in summer? it might be asked. Perhaps they
are constructed just before the rise of the water
in the fall and winter, that they may not have
to swim so far as the flood would require in
order to eat their clams.
Nov. 5, 1855. I hate the present modes of
AUTUMN. 219
living and getting a living. Farming and shop-
keeping and working at a trade or profession,
are all odious to me. I should relish getting
my living in a simple, primitive fashion. The
life which society proposes to me to live is so
artificial and complex, bolstered up on many
weak supports, and sure to topple down at last,
that no man surely can ever be inspired to live
it, and only " old fogies " ever praise it. At
best some think it their duty to live it. I believe
in the infinite joy and satisfaction of helping
myself and others to the extent of my ability.
But what is the use in trying to live simply,
raising what you eat, making what you wear,
building what you inhabit, burning what you
cut and dig, when those to whom you are allied
outwardly, want and will have a thousand other
things which neither you nor they can raise, and
nobody else, perchance, will pay for. The fel
low-man to whom you are yoked is a steer that
is ever bolting right the other way. I was sug
gesting once to a man who was wincing under
some of the consequences of our loose and ex
pensive way of living. "But you might raise
your own potatoes," etc. We had often done it
at our house and had some to sell. At which he
demurring, I said, setting it high, "You could
raise twenty bushels even." But said he, " I
use thirty-five." " How large is your family ? "
220 AUTUMN.
" A wife and three infant children." This was
the real family. I need not enumerate those
who were hired to help eat the potatoes and
waste them. So he had to hire a man to raise
his potatoes. Thus men invite the devil in, at
every angle, and then prate about the Garden of
Eden and the fall of man. I know many chil
dren to whom I would fain make a present on
some one of their birthdays, but they are so far
gone in the luxury of presents, have such per
fect museums of costly ones, that it would absorb
my entire earnings for a year to buy them some
thing which would not be beneath their notice.
That white birch fungus always presents its
face to the ground, parallel with it, for here are
some on an upright dead birch whose faces or
planes are at right angles with the axis of the
tree, as usual, looking down, but others, attached
to the top of the tree which lies prostrate on the
ground, have their planes parallel with the axis
of the tree, as if looking round the birch.
Nov. 5, 1857. Sometimes I would rather get
a transient glimpse or side view of a thing than
stand fronting it, as with these polypodies. The
object I caught a glimpse of as I went by, haunts
my thought a long time, is infinitely suggestive,
and I do not care to front it and scrutinize it,
for I know that the thing that really concerns
me is not there, but in my relation to that.
AUTUMN. 221
That is a mere reflecting surface. It is not the
polypody in my pitcher or herbarium, or which
I may possibly persuade to grow on a bank in
my yard, or which is described in the botanies,
that interests me, but the one I pass by in my
walks a little distance off, when in the right
mood. Its influence is sporadic, wafted through
the air to me. Do you imagine its fruit to stick
to the back of the leaf all winter? At this
season polypody is in the air. It is worth the
while to walk in swamps now, to bathe your eyes
in greenness. The terminal-shield fern is the
handsomest and glossiest green.
I think the man of science makes the mistake,
and the mass of mankind along with him, to
suppose that you should give your chief atten
tion to the phenomenon which excites you, as
something independent of you, and not as it is
related to you. The important fact is its effect
on me. The man of science thinks I have no
business to see anything else but just what he
defines the rainbow to be, but I care not whether
my vision is a waking thought or a dream re
membered, whether it is seen in the light or in
the dark. It is the subject of the vision, the
truth alone that concerns me. The philosopher
for whom rainbows, etc., can be explained away
never saw them.
Nov. 5, 1858. The Cornus florida on the
222 AUTUMN.
Island is still full-leafed, and is now completely
scarlet, though it was partly green on the twenty-
eighth [of October]. It is apparently in the
height of its color there now, or if more exposed
perhaps it would have been on the first of No
vember. This makes it the latest tree to change.
Nov. 5, 1860. I am struck by the fact that
the more slowly trees grow at first, the sounder
they are at the core, and I think the same is
true of human beings. We do not wish to see
children precocious, making great strides in their
early years, like sprouts producing a soft and
perishable timber, but better if they expand
slowly at first, as if contending with difficulties,
and so are solidified and perfected. Such trees
continue and expand with nearly equal rapidity
to an extreme old age.
Nov. 6, 1853. Climbed the wooded hill by
Holden's spruce swamp, and got a novel view of
the river and Fair Haven Bay through the
almost leafless woods. How much handsomer a
river or lake such as ours seen thus through a
foreground of scattered or else partially leafless
trees, though at a considerable distance this side
of it, especially if the water is open, without a
wooded shore or isles. It is the most perfect
and beautiful of all frames, which yet the
sketcher is commonly careful to brush aside. I
mean a pretty thick foreground, a view of the
AUTUMN. 223
distant water through the near forest, through a
thousand little vistas, as we are rushing towards
the former, that intimate mingling of wood and
water which excites an expectation that the near
and open view rarely realizes. We prefer that
some part be concealed which our imagination
may navigate.
Nov. 6, 1857. Minott is a very pleasing
figure in nature. He improves any scenery, he
and his comrades, Harry Hooper, John Wyman,
Oliver Williams, etc. If he gets into a pond
hole, he disturbs it no more than a water spirit
for me.
Nov. 7, 1839. We are not commonly aware
that there is a rising as well as a risen genera
tion. It is a fact, the growing men or women
which we do not commonly allow for or re
member, who would disturb many a fair theory.
Speak for yourself, old man. By what degrees
of consanguinity is this succulent and rank-grow
ing slip of manhood related to me ? What is it
but another herb, ranging all the kingdoms of
Nature, drawing its sustenance by a thousand
roots and fibres from all soils !
Nov. 7, 1840.
I 'm guided in the darkest night
By flashes of auroral light,
Which overdart thy eastern home,
And teach me not in vain to roam.
224 AUTUMN.
Thy steady light on t' other side
Pales the sunset, makes day abide,
And after sunrise, stays the dawn,
Forerunner of a brighter morn.
When others laugh, I am not glad,
When others cry, I am not sad.
I am a miser without blame,
Am conscience-stricken without shame,
An idler am I without leisure,
A busybody without pleasure.
I did not think so bright a day
Would issue in so dark a night,
I did not think such sober play
Would leave me in so sad a plight,
And I should be most sorely spent,
When first I was most innocent.
I thought by loving all beside,
To prove to you my love was wide,
And by the rites I soared above,
To show you my peculiar love.
Nov. 7, 1853. Three bluebirds still braving
the cold winds, Acton Blues. Their blue uni
form makes me think of soldiers who have re
ceived orders to keep the field and not go into
winter quarters.
A muskrat's house on the top of a rock ; [the
soil ?] too thin round the sides for a passage be
neath, yet a small cavity at top, which makes
me think they use them merely as a sheltered
perch above water. They seize thus many
AUTUMN. 225
cones to build on, as a hummock left by the ice.
The wads of which this muskrat's house was
composed were about six inches by four, rounded
and massed at one end and flaking off at the
other, and were composed chiefly of a little
green moss-like weed, for the most part withered
dark-brown, and having the strong odor of the
fresh water sponge and conferva.
Nov. 7, 1855. I find it good to be out in
this still, dark, mizzling afternoon. My walk or
voyage is more suggestive and profitable than in
bright weather. The view is contracted by the
misty rain. The water is perfectly smooth, and
the stillness is favorable to reflection. I am
more open to impressions, more sensitive, not
calloused or indurated by sun and wind, as if in
a chamber still. My thoughts are concentrated.
I am all compact. The solitude is real, too, for
the weather keeps other men at home. This
mist is like a roof and walls, over and around,
and I walk with a domestic feeling. The sound
of a wagon going over an unseen bridge is louder
than ever, and so of other sounds. I am com
pelled to look at near objects. All things have
a soothing effect. The very clouds and mists
brood over me. My power of observation and
contemplation is much increased. My attention
does not wander. The world and my life are
simplified. What now are Europe and Asia ?
226 AUTUMN.
Nov. 7, 1857. Minott adorns whatever part
of nature he touches. Whichever way he walks
he transfigures the earth for me. If a common
man speaks of Walden Pond to me, I see only a
shallow, dull-colored body of water, without re
flections, or peculiar color, but if Minott speaks
of it, I see the green water and reflected hills at
once, for he has been there. I hear the rustle
of leaves from woods which he goes through.
This has been another Indian-summer day.
Thermometer 58° at noon.
Nov. 7, 1858. P. M. To Bateman's Pond.
I leave my boat opposite the hemlocks, and as I
glance upwards between them, seeing the bare
but bright hillside beyond, I think, Now we are
left to the hemlocks and pines with their silvery
light, to the bare trees and withered grass. The
very rocks and stones in the rocky road (that
beyond Farmer's) look white in the clear No
vember light, especially after the rain. We are
left to the chickadee's familiar notes, and the
jay for trumpeter. What struck me was a cer
tain emptiness beyond, between the hemlocks
and the hill, in the cool washed air, as if I
appreciated the absence of insects from it. It
suggested, agreeably to me, a mere space in
which to walk briskly. The fields are, as it
were, vacated. The very earth is like a house
shut up for the winter, and I go knocking about
AUTUMN. 227
it in vain. But just then I heard a chickadee
in a hemlock, and was inexpressibly cheered to
find that an old acquaintance was yet stirring
about the premises, and was, I was assured, to
be there all winter. All that is evergreen in
me revived at once.
The very moss (the little pine moss) in Hos-
mer's meadow is revealed by its greenness amid
the withered grass and stubble.
Going up the lane beyond Farmer's, I was
surprised to see fly up from the white stony
ground two snow buntings, which alighted again
close by. They had pale brown or tawny touches
on the white breast, on each side oft the head
and on top of the head, in the last place with some
darker color. Had light yellowish bills. They
sat quite motionless within two rods, and allowed
me to approach within a rod, as if conscious that
the white rocks, etc., concealed them. It seemed
as if they were attracted to our faces of the same
color with themselves. One squatted flat, if not
both. Their soft rippling notes, as they went
off, reminded me of the northeast snowstorms
to which erelong they are to be an accompani
ment.
Looking southwest toward the pond just be
fore sunset, I saw against the light what I took
to be a shad-bush in full bloom, but without a
leaflet. I was prepared for this sight after the
228 AUTUMN.
very warm autumn, because this tree frequently
puts forth leaves in October. Or it might be a
young wild apple. Hastening to it, I found it
was only the feathery seeds of the Virgin's
Bower [Clematis mrginiana~], whose vine, so
close to the branches, was not noticeable. They
looked just like dense umbels of white flowers,
and in this light, three or four rods off, were
fully as light as white apple-blossoms. It is
singular how one thing thus puts on the sem
blance of another. I thought at first I had
made a discovery more interesting than the blos
soming of apple trees in the fall. It carried me
round t% spring again, when the shad- bush,
almost leafless, is seen waving its white blos
soms amid the yet bare trees, the feathery
masses, at intervals along the twigs, just like
umbels of apple bloom, so caught and reflected
the western light.
I pass a musquash house, apparently begun
last night. The first mouthfuls of weeds were
placed between some small button-bush stems
which stood amid the pads and pontederia for a
support, and to prevent their being washed
away. Opposite I see some half concealed amid
the bleached phalaris grass (a tall coarse grass),
or, in some places, the blue joint.
Nov. 8, 1850. The stillness of the woods
and fields is remarkable at this season of the
AUTUMN. 229
year. There is not even the creak of a cricket
to be heard. Of myriads of dry shrub-oak
leaves, not one rustles. Your own breath can
stir them, yet the breath of heaven does not suf
fice to. The trees have the aspect of waiting
for winter. The sprouts which had shot up so
vigorously to repair the damage which the chop
pers had done, have stopped short for the winter.
Everything stands silent and expectant. If I
listen, I hear only the note of a chickadee, our
most common bird at present, most identified
with our forests, or perchance the scream of a
jay, or from the solemn depths of the woods I
hear tolling far away the knell of one departed.
Thought rushes in to fill the vacuum. As you
walk, however, the partridge bursts away from
the foot of a shrub oak, like its own dry fruit ;
immortal bird! This sound still startles us.
The silent, dry, almost leafless, certainly fruit
less woods, you wonder what cheer that bird can
find in them.
Nov. 8, 1851. Ah, those sun-sparkles on
Dudley Pond in this November air, what a
heaven to live in ! Intensely brilliant as no
artificial light I have seen, like a dance of dia
monds, coarse mazes of the diamond dance seen
through the trees. All objects shine to-day,
even the sportsmen seen at a distance, as if a
cavern were unroofed, and its crystals gave
230 AUTUMN.
entertainment to the sun. This great see-saw of
brilliants, the di/>Jpi#/Aoi> yeA.ao-/xa. The squirrels
that run across the road sport their tails like
banners. When I saw the bare sand at Cochit-
uate, I felt my relation to the soil. These are
my sands not yet run out. Not yet will the
fates turn the glass. In this sand my bones
will gladly lie. Like the Viola pedata, I shall
be ready to bloom again here in my Indian-sum
mer days. Here, ever springing, never dying,
with perennial root I stand, for the winter of the
land is warm to me. When I see the earth's
sands thrown up from beneath its surface, it
touches me inwardly, it reminds me of my origin,
for I am such a plant, so native to New Eng
land, methinks, as springs from the sand cast
up from below.
Nov. 8, 1853. 10 A. M. Our first snow. The
children greet it with a shout, when they come
out at recess. P. M. It begins to whiten the
plowed ground now, but has not overcome the
russet of the grass ground. Birds generally
wear the russet dress of nature at this season.
They have their fall, no less than the plants.
The bright tints depart from their foliage or
feathers, and they flit past like withered leaves
in rustling flocks. The sparrow is a withered
leaf. Perchance I heard the last cricket of the
season yesterday, — they chirp here and there at
AUTUMN. 231
longer and longer intervals till the snow quenches
their song, — and the last striped squirrel, too,
perchance, yesterday. They then do not go
into winter quarters till the ground is covered
with snow.
The partridges go off with a whirr, and then
sail a long way, level and low, through the woods
with that impetus they have got, displaying their
neat forms perfectly.
Nov. 8, 1857. A warm, cloudy, rain-threat
ening morning. About 10 A. M., a long flock
of geese are going over from northeast to south
west, or parallel with the general direction of the
coast, and great mountain ranges. The sonorous,
quavering sounds of the geese are the voice of
the cloudy air, a sound that comes from directly
between us and the sky, an aerial sound, and yet
so distinct, heavy and sonorous ; a clanking chain
drawn through the heavy air. I saw through
my window some children looking up, and
pointing their tiny bows into the heavens, and I
knew at once that the geese were in the air. It
is always an exciting event. The children, in
stinctively aware of its importance, rushed into
the house to tell their parents. These trav
elers are revealed to you by the upward-turned
gaze of men. And though these undulating
lines are melting into the southwestern sky, the
sound comes clear and distinct to you as the
232 AUTUMN.
clank of a chain in a neighboring stithy. So
they migrate, not flying from hedge to hedge,
but from latitude to latitude, from state to
state, steering boldly out into the ocean of the
air. It is remarkable how these large objects, so
plain when your vision is rightly directed, may
be lost in the sky, if you look away for a mo
ment, as hard to hit as a star with a telescope.
It is a sort of encouraging or soothing sound,
to assuage their painful fears when they go over
a town, as a man moans to deaden a physical
pain. The direction of their flight each spring
and autumn reminds us inlanders how the coast
trends. In the afternoon I met Flood, who en
deavored to draw my attention to a flock of
geese in the mizzling air, but encountering me
he lost sight of them, while I at length, looking
that way, discovered them, though he could not.
This was the third flock to-day. Now, if ever,
then, we may expect some change in the
weather.
p. M. To the swamp in front of the C. Miles
house. I have no doubt that a good farmer,
who of course loves his work, takes exactly the
same kind of pleasure in draining a swamp, see
ing the water flow out in his newly-cut ditch,
that a child does in his mud dykes and water
wheels. Both alike love to play with the natural
forces.
AUTUMN. 233
There is quite a ravine by which the water of
this swamp flows out eastward, and at the bot
tom of it many prinos berries are conspicuous,
now apparently in their prime. These are ap
pointed to be an ornament of this bare season
between leaves and snow. The swamp pink's
large, yellowish buds, too, are conspicuous now.
I see also the swamp pyrus buds, expanded
sometimes into small leaves. This then is a reg
ular phenomenon. It is the only shrub or tree
that I know which so decidedly springs again
in the fall, in the Indian summer. It might be
called the Indian-summer shrub. The clethra
buds, too, have decidedly expanded there, show
ing leaflets, but very small. Some of the new
pyrus leaves are nearly full-grown. Would not
this be a pretty device on some hale and cheery
old man's shield, the swamp pyrus unfolding its
leaves again in the fall? Every plant enjoys
some preeminence, and this is its : the most for
ward to respond to the warmer season. How
much spring there is in it! Its sap is most
easily liquefied. It takes the least sun to thaw
and develop it. It makes this annual sacrifice
of its very first leaves to its love for the sun.
While all other plants are reserved, this is open
and confiding. I see it not without emotion. I,
too, have my spring thoughts even in November.
This I see in pleasant November days, when
234 AUTUMN.
rills and birds begin to tinkle in winter fashion
through the more open aisles of the swamps.
I do not know exactly what that sweet word
is which the chickadee says when it hops near
to me now in those ravines.
When the air is thick and the sky overcast,
we need not walk so far. We give our atten
tion to nearer objects, being less distracted from
them. I take occasion to explore some near
wood which my walks commonly overshoot.
Ah, my friends, I know you better than you
think, and love you better, too. The day after
never, we will have an explanation.
Nov. 8, 1858. P. M. To Boidder Field. . . .
Nature has many scenes to exhibit, and con
stantly draws a curtain over this part or that.
She is constantly repainting the landscape and
all surfaces, dressing up some scene for our en
tertainment. Lately we had a leafy wilderness ;
now bare twigs begin to prevail, and soon she
will surprise us with a mantle of snow. Some
green she thinks so good for our eyes that, like
blue, she never banishes it entirely from our
eyes, but has created evergreens.
It is remarkable how little any but a lichenist
will observe on the bark of trees. The mass of
men have but the vaguest and most indefinite
notion of mosses, as a sort of shreds and fringes,
and the world in which the lichenist dwells is
AUTUMN. 235
much further from theirs than one side of this
earth from the other. They see bark as if they
saw it not. . . . Each phase of nature, while not
invisible, is yet not too distinct and obstrusive.
It is there, to be found when we look for it, but
not demanding our attention. It is like a silent
but sympathizing companion, in whose company
we retain most of the advantages of solitude, with
whom we can walk and talk, or be silent, natur
ally, without the necessity of talking in a strain
foreign to the place. I know of but one or two
persons with whom I can afford to walk. With
most, the walk degenerates into a more vigorous
use of your legs (ludicrously purposeless), while
you are discussing some weighty argument, each
one having his say, spoiling each other's day, wor
rying one another with conversation. I know
of no use in the walking part in this case, ex
cept that we may seem to be getting on together
toward some goal. But of course we keep our
distance all the way; jumping every wall and
ditch with vigor in the vain hope of shaking
our companion off, trying to kill two birds with
one stone, though they sit at opposite points
of the compass, to see nature and do the honors
to one who does not.
I wandered over bare fields where the cat
tle, lately turned out, roamed restless and un
satisfied with the feed. I dived into a rust-
236 AUTUMN.
ling young oak wood where not a green leaf
was to be seen, and again I thought, They are
all gone surely, and have left me alone. Not
even a man Friday remains. What nutriment
can I extract from these bare twigs ? Starva
tion stares me in the face. " Nay, nay" said a
nuthatch, making its way, head downward,
about a bare hickory close by, " The nearer the
bone, the sweeter the meat. Only the superflu
ous has been swept away. Now we behold the
naked truth. If at any time the weather is
too bleak and cold for you, keep the sunny side
of the trunk, for a wholesome and inspiring
warmth is there, such as the summer never
afforded. There are the winter morning's with
o
the sun on the oak wood-tops. While buds sleep
thoughts wake." "Hear! hear!" screamed the
jay from a neighboring tree, where I had heard
a tittering for some time, " winter has a concen
trated and nutty kernel, if you know where to
look for it," and then the speaker shifted to an
other tree farther off and reiterated his asser
tions, and his mate at a distance confirmed
them; and now I heard a suppressed chuckle
from a red squirrel that heard the last remark,
but had kept silent and invisible all the while.
The birds being gone, the squirrel came running
down a slanting bough, and as he stopped twirl
ing a nut, called out rather impudently, " Look
AUTUMN. 237
here ! just get a snug-fitting fur coat and a pair
of fur gloves like mine, and you may laugh at
a northeast storm." Then he wound up with
a stray phrase in his own lingo, accompanied
by a flourish of his tail.
Nov. 9, 1850. I found many fresh violets
( Viola pedata) to-day in the woods.
Nov. 9, 1851. I would fain set down some
thing beside facts. Facts should only be the
frame to my picture. They should be material
to the mythology which I am writing, not facts
to assist men to make money, farmers to farm
profitably in any common sense, facts to tell
who I am, and where I have been, or what I
have thought ; as now the bell rings for evening
meeting, and its volumes of sound, like smoke
which rises from where a cannon is fired, make
the tent in which I dwell. My facts shall all
be falsehoods to the common sense. I would so
state facts that they shall be significant, shall
be myths or mythologic, facts which the mind
perceived, thoughts which the body thought,
with these I deal. I cherish vague and misty
forms, vaguest when the cloud at which I gaze
is dissipated quite, and naught but the skyey
depths are seen.
James P. Brown's retired pond, now shallow
and more than half dried up, seems far away
and rarely visited, known to few, though not
238 AUTUMN.
far off. It is encircled by an amphitheatre of
low hills, on two opposite sides covered with high
pine woods, the two other sides with young
white oaks and white pines respectively. I am
affected by seeing there reflected this gray day,
the gray stems of the pine wood on the hillside,
and the sky ; that mirror, as it were a perma
nent picture to be seen there, a permanent piece
of idealism. I am a little surprised on beholding
this reflection which I did not perceive for some
minutes after looking into the pond, as if I had
not regarded this as a constant phenomenon.
What has become of Nature's common-sense and
love of facts when in the very mud-puddles she
reflects the skies and the trees ? Does that pro
cedure recommend itself entirely to the common-
sense of men ? Is that the way the New Eng
land farmer would have arranged it ?
Now the leaves are gone, the birds' nests are
revealed, the brood being fledged and flown.
There is a perfect adaptation in the material used
in constructing a nest. Here is one which I
took from a maple on the causeway at Hub-
bard's bridge. It is fastened to the twigs by
white woolen strings (out of a shawl?) which
were picked up in the road, though it is more
than half a mile from a house ; and the sharp
eyes of the bird have discovered plenty of horse
hairs out of the tail or mane with which to give
AUTUMN. 239
it form by their spring, with meadow hay for
body, and the reddish woolly material which
invests the ferns in the spring, apparently, for
lining.
Nov. 9, 1852. Ranunculus repens, Bidens
connata, flat in a brook, yarrow, dandelion,
autumnal dandelion, tansy, Aster undulatus,
etc. A late three-ribbed golden-rod, with large
serratures in the middle of the narrow leaves,
ten or twelve rays, Potentilla argentea. Early
part of November, time for walnutting.
Nov. 9, 1853. P. M. To Fair Haven Hill by
boat with W. E. C. The muskrats have added
a new story to their houses since the last flood
which covered them, I mean that of October
31st, or thereabouts. They are uncommonly
high, I think full four feet by five or more in
diameter, a heaping cart-load. There are at
least eight such within half a mile. It is re
markable how little effect the waves have on
them, while a heap of manure or a haycock
would be washed away or undermined at once.
I opened one. It was composed of coarse grass,
pontederia stems, etc., not altogether in mouth-
fuls. This was three and a half feet above
water, others quite four. After taking off a
foot, I came to the chamber. It was a regu
larly formed oval or elliptical chamber, about
eighteen inches the longest way, and seven or
240 . AUTUMN.
eight inches deep, shaped like a pebble, with
smooth walls of the weeds, and bottomed or
bedded with a very little drier grass, a mere
coating of it. It would hold four or five, closely
packed. The entrance, eight or nine inches
wide, led directly from the water at an angle of
45°, and in the water there were some green
and white stub ends of pontederia (?) stems, I
think, looking like flagroot. That thick wall, a
foot quite or more above, and eighteen inches
or two feet [below?], being of these damp
materials soon freezes, and makes a tight and
warm house. The walls are of such breadth
at the bottom that the water in the gallery
probably never freezes. If the height of these
houses is any sign of high or low water, this
winter it will be uncommonly high.
Nov. 9, 1855. 9 A. M. With Blake up Assa-
bet. Saw in the pool at the Hemlocks what I
at first thought was a brighter leaf moved by
the zephyr on the surface of the smooth, dark
water, but it was a splendid male summer duck,
which allowed us to approach within seven or
eight rods. It was sailing up close to the
shore, and then rose and flew up the curving
stream. It was a perfect floating gem, and
Blake, who had never seen the like, was greatly
surprised, not knowing that so splendid a bird
was found in this part of the world. There it
AUTUMN. 241
was, constantly moving back and forth by invis
ible means, and wheeling on the smooth surface,
showing now its breast, now its side, now its
rear. It had a large, rich, flowing, green, bur
nished crest, a most ample head-dress, two cres
cents of dazzling white on the side of the head
and the black neck, a pinkish red bill (with
black tip) and similar irides, and a long white
mark under and at wing -point on sides, the
side, as if the form of wing at this distance,
light bronze or greenish brown ; but, above all,
its breast, when it turns into the right light, all
aglow with splendid purple (?) or ruby (?) re
flections like the throat of the humming-bird.
It might not appear so, close at hand. This
was the most surprising to me. What an orna
ment to a river, that glowing gem floating in
contact with its waters ; as if the humming-bird
should recline its ruby throat and its breast
there ; like dipping a glowing coal in water. It
so affected me. Unless you are thus near, and
have a glass, the splendor and beauty of its
colors will not be discovered.
I deal so much with my fuel, what with find
ing it, loading it, conveying it home, sawing and
splitting it, get so many values out of it, that
the heat it will yield when in the stove is of a
lower temperature and less value in my eyes,
though when I feel it I am reminded of all my
242 AUTUMN.
adventures. I just turned to put in a stick. I
had my choice in the box of gray chestnut rail,
black and brown snag of an oak stump, dead
white pine top, or else old bridge plank, and
chose the last. Yes, I lose sight of the ultimate
uses of the wood and work, the immediate ones
are so great, and yet most of mankind, those
called most successful in obtaining the neces
saries of life, getting a living, obtain none of
this except a mere vulgar and perhaps stupefy
ing warmth. I feel disposed, to this extent, to
do the getting a living and the living for any
three or four of my neighbors who really want
the fuel and will appreciate the act, now that I
have supplied myself. I affect what would com
monly be called a mean and miserable way of
living. I thoroughly sympathize with all sav
ages and gypsies in as far as they assert the
original right of man to the productions of Na
ture and a place in her.
Nov. 9, 1857. Mr. [Jacob] Farmer tells me
that one Sunday he went to his barn, having
nothing to do, and thought he would watch the
swallows, republican swallows. The old bird
was feeding her young, and he sat within fifteen
feet, overlooking them. There were five young,
and as often as the bird came with a fly, the one
at the door or opening took it, and then they all
hitched round one notch, so that a new one was
AUTUMN. 243
presented at the door, who received the next fly,
and this was the invariable order, the same one
never receiving two flies in succession. At last
the old bird brought a very small fly, and the
young one that swallowed it did not desert his
ground, but waited to receive the next, but
when the bird came with another of the usual
size, she commenced a loud and long scolding at
the little one, till it resigned its place, and the
next in succession received the fly.
Nov. 9, 1858. The newspaper tells me that
Uncannoonuc was white with snow for a short
time on the morning of the 7th. Thus steadily
but unobserved the winter steals down from the
north till from our highest hills we can discern
its vanguard. Next week perchance our own hills
will be white. Little did we think how near
the winter was. It is as if a scout had brought
us word that an enemy was approaching in
force, only a day's march distant. Manchester
was the spy this time, who has a camp at the
base of that hill. We had not thought seri
ously of winter, we dwelt in fancied security yet.
It is of no use to plow deeper than the soil is,
unless you mean to follow up that mode of culti
vation persistently, manuring highly and carting
in muck, at each plowing making a soil, in short.
Yet many a man likes to tackle weighty themes
like immortality, but in his discourse he turns
244 AUTUMN.
up nothing but yellow sand, under which what
little fertile and available surface soil he may
have is quite buried and lost. He should teach
frugality rather, how to postpone the fatal hour ;
should plant a crop of beans. He might have
raised enough of them to make a deacon of him,
though never a preacher. Many a man runs
his plow so deep in heavy or strong soil that
it sticks fast in the furrow. It is a great art
in the writer to improve from day to day just
that soil and fertility which he has, to harvest
that crop which his life yields, whatever it may
be, not be straining as if to reach apples and
oranges when he yields only ground-nuts. He
should be digging, not soaring. Just as earnest
as your life is, so deep is your soil. If strong
and deep, you will sow wheat and raise bread of
life in it.
Now. 10, 1851. It appears to me that those
things which most engage the daily attention of
men, as politics, for instance, are, it is true,
vital functions of human society, but should be
unconsciously performed like the vital functions
of the natural body. It is as if a thinker sub
mitted himself to be rasped by the great gizzard
of creation. Politics is, as it were, the gizzard
of society, full of grit and gravel, and the two
political parties are its two opposite halves which
grind on each other. Not only individuals, but
AUTUMN. 245
states, have thus a confirmed dyspepsia, which
expresses itself, you can imagine by what sort
of eloquence. Our life is not altogether a for
getting, but also, to a great extent, a remember
ing of that which, perchance, we should never
have been conscious of, which should not be
permitted to distract a man's waking hours.
Why should we not meet, not always as dys
peptics, but sometimes as eupeptics? In our
intercourse we refer to no true and absolute
account of things, but there is ever a petty ref
erence to man, to society, aye, often to Christi
anity. I come from the funeral of mankind to
attend to a natural phenomenon. The signifi
cance of any fact in nature, of sun and moon
and stars, is so much grander when not referred
to man and his needs, but viewed absolutely.
Then we catch sounds which are wafted from
over the confines of time.
Nov. 10, 1858. Hearing in an oak wood
near by a sound as if some one had broken a
twig, I looked up and saw a jay, pecking at an
acorn. There were several of them gathering-
acorns on a scarlet oak. I could hear them
breaking them off. They then flew to a suit
able limb, and placing the acorn under one
foot, hammered away at it busily, looking round
from time to time to see if any foe was ap
proaching, and soon reached the meat, and nib-
246 AUTUMN.
bled at it, holding up their heads to swallow,
while they held it very firmly with their claws.
(Their hammering made a sound like the wood
pecker's.) Nevertheless, it sometimes dropped
to the ground before they had done with it.
Nov. 11, 1850. This afternoon I heard a sin
gle cricket singing, chirruping on a bank, the
only one I have heard for a long time, like a
squirrel, or a little bird, clear and shrill, — as I
fancied, like an evening robin, singing in this
evening of the year. A very fine and poetical
strain for such a little singer. I had never be
fore heard the cricket so like a bird. It is a
remarkable note, the earth-song.
That delicate, waving, feathery dry grass
which I saw yesterday is to be remembered with
the autumn. The dry grasses are not dead for
me. A beautiful form has as much life at one
season as at another.
I notice that everywhere in the pastures mi
nute young fragrant life-everlasting with only
four or five flat-lying leaves and thread-like
roots, all together as big as a fourpence, spots
the ground, like winter rye and grass which
roots itself in the fall against another year.
These little things have bespoken their places
for the next season. They have a little pallet
of cotton or down in their centres, ready for an
early start in the spring.
AUTUMN. 247
I saw an old bone in the woods covered with
lichens, which looked like the bone of an old
settler, which yet some little animal had recently
gnawed. I saw plainly the marks of its teeth,
so indefatigable is nature to strip the flesh from
bones, and return them to dust again. No lit
tle rambling beast can go by some dry and an
cient bone, but he must turn aside and try his
teeth upon it. An old bone is knocked about
till it becomes dust ; nature has no mercy on it.
It was quite too ancient to suggest disagreeable
associations. It survives like the memory of
a man. With time all that was personal and
offensive wears off. The tooth of envy may
sometimes gnaw it and reduce it more rapidly,
but it is much more a prey to forgetfulness.
Nov. 11, 1851. 2 P. M. A bright, but cold
day, finger-cold. One must next wear gloves,
put his hands in winter quarters. There is a
cold, silvery light on the white pines as I go
through J. P. Brown's field near Jenny Du-
gan's. I am glad of the shelter of the thick pine
wood on the Marlboro' road, on the plain. The
roar of the wind over the pines sounds like the
surf on countless beaches, an endless shore, and
at intervals it sounds like a gong resounding
through halls and entries, that is, there is a cer
tain resounding woodiness in the tone. The sky
looks mild and fair enough from this shelter.
248 AUTUMN.
Every withered blade of grass and every dry
weed as well as pine needle, reflects the light.
The lately dark woods are open and light, the
sun shines in upon the stems of trees which it
has not shone on since spring. Around the
edges of ponds the weeds are dead, and there,
too, the light penetrates. The atmosphere is
less moist and gross, and light is universally dis
persed. We are greatly indebted to these trans
ition seasons or states of the atmosphere, which
show us thus phenomena that belong not to
the summer or the winter of any climate. The
brilliancy of the autumn is wonderful, this flash
ing brilliancy, as if the atmosphere were phos
phoric.
When I have been confined to my chamber
for the greater part of several days by some em
ployment or perchance by the ague, till I felt
weary and house-worn, I have been conscious of
a certain softness to which I am otherwise com
monly a stranger, in which the gates were loos
ened to some emotions ; and if I were to become
a confirmed invalid, I see how some sympathy
with mankind and society might spring up. Yet
what is my softness good for, even to tears ? It
is not I, but nature in me. I laughed at myself
the other day to think that I cried while read
ing a pathetic story. I was no more affected
in spirit than I frequently am, inethinks. The
AUTUMN. 249
tears were merely a phenomenon of the bowels,
and I felt that that expression of my sym
pathy, so unusual with me, was something
mean, and such as I should be ashamed to have
the subject of it understand.
To-day you may write a chapter on the advan
tages of traveling, and to-morrow you may write
another on the advantages of not traveling. The
horizon has one kind of beauty and attraction to
him who has never explored the hills and moun
tains in it, and another, I fear a less ethereal
and glorious one, to him who has. That blue
mountain in the horizon is certainly the most
heavenly, the most elysian, which we have not
climbed, on which we have not camped for a
night. But our horizon, by such exploration, is
only moved farther off, and if our whole life
should prove thus a failure, the future which is
to atone for all, where still there must be some
success, will be more glorious still.
It is fatal to the writer to be too much pos
sessed by his thought ; things must be a little
remote to be described.
Nov. 11, 1853. 9 A. M. To Fair Haven by
boat. The morning is so calm and pleasant,
that I must spend the forenoon abroad. The
river is smooth as polished silver. Some musk-
rat houses have received a slight addition in the
night. The one I opened day before yesterday
250 AUTUMN.
has been covered again, though not yet raised
so high as before. I counted nineteen between
Hubbard bathing place and Hubbard's further
wood, this side the Hallowell place, from two to
four feet high. I opened one. The floor of the
chamber was two feet or more beneath the top,
and one foot above the water. It was quite
warm from the recent presence of the inhabitants.
Nov. 11, 1854. Minott heard geese go over
night before last about 8 P. M. Therien, too,
heard them " yelling like anything " over Wai-
den, where he is cutting, the same evening.
Nov. 11, 1855. P. M. Up Assabet. The
bricks of which the muskrat builds his house
are little masses or wads of the dead weedy rub
bish on the muddy bottom which it probably
takes up with its mouth. It consists of various
kinds of weeds, now confervae by the slime,
agglutinated and dried converbal threads, utri-
cularia, horn wort, etc., — a streaming, tuft-like
wad. The building of these cabins appears to
be coincident with the commencement of their
clam diet, for now their vegetable food, except
ing roots, is cut off. I see many small collections
of shells already left along the river's brink.
Thither they resort with their clam, to open and
eat it. But if it is the edge of a meadow which
is being overflowed, they must raise it, and make
a permanent dry stool there, for they cannot
AUTUMN. 251
afford to swim far with each clam. I see where
one has left half a peck of shells on perhaps
the foundation of an old stool or a harder clod
which the water is just about to cover. He has
begun his stool by laying two or three fresh wads
upon the shells, the foundation of his house.
Thus their cabin is apparently first intended
merely for a stool, and afterward, when it is
large, perforated as if it were the bank ! There
is no cabin for a long way above the hemlocks,
where there is no low meadow bordering the
stream.
Nov. 11, 1858. Goodwin brings me this
morning a this year's loon which he has just
killed in the river, the Great Northern Diver,
but a smaller specimen than Wilson describes,
and somewhat differently marked. It is twenty-
seven inches long to end of feet, by forty-four,
bill three and three fourths to angle of mouth.
Above, bluish gray, with small white spots (two
at end of each feather). Beneath, pure white,
throat and all, except a dusky bar across the
vent. Bill, chiefly pale bluish and dusky. You
are struck by its broad, flat, sharp-edged legs,
made to cut through the water rather than to
walk with, set far back and naturally stretched
out backward, its long and powerful bill, con
spicuous white throat and breast. Dislodged by
winter in the north, it is slowly traveling toward
252 AUTUMN.
a warmer climate, diving this morning in the
cool river, which is now full of light, the trees
and shrubs on its bank having long since lost
their leaves. The neighboring fields are white
with frost. Yet this hardy bird is comfortable
and contented there, if the sportsmen will let it
alone.
Nov. 11, 1859. October 24, riding home
from Acton, I saw the withered leaves blown
from an oak by the roadside, dashing off, gyrat
ing, and surging upward into the air, so exactly
like a flock of birds sporting with one another,
that for a moment, at least, I could not be sure
they were not birds, and it suggested how far
the motions of birds, like those of these leaves,
might be determined by currents of air, that is,
how far the bird learns to conform to such cur
rents.
Nov. 12, 1837. I yet lack discernment to
distinguish the whole lesson of to-day, but it is
not lost, it will come to me at last. My desire
is to know what I have lived, that I may know
how to live henceforth.
Nov. 12 [?], 1841. Music is only a sweet
striving to express character. Now that lately
I have heard of some traits in the character of a
fair and earnest maiden whom I had known
only superficially, but who has gone hence to
make herself more known by distance, these
AUTUMN. 253
strains sound like a wild harp music. There is
apology enough for all the deficiency and short
coming in the world in the patient waiting of
any bud of character to unfold itself.
Only character can command our reverent
love. It is all mysteries in itself.
What is it gilds the trees and clouds,
And paints the heavens so gay,
But yonder fast-abiding light
With its unchanging ray.
I 've felt within ray inmost soul
Such cheerful morning news,
In the horizon of my mind
I 've seen such morning hues,
As in the twilight of the dawn
When the first birds awake,
Is heard within some silent wood
When they the small twigs break ;
Or in the eastern skies is seen
Before the sun appears,
Foretelling of the summer heats
Which far away he bears.
Walden. p. M. I seem to discern the very
form of the wind when, blowing over the hills,
it falls in broad flakes upon the surface of the
pond, this subtle element obeying the law of the
least subtle. I cannot but be encouraged by
the blithe activity of the elements. Who hears
the rippling of the rivers will not utterly de
spair of anything. The wind in the wood yonder
254 AUTUMN.
sounds like an incessant waterfall, the water
dashing and roaring among the rocks.
Nov. 12, 1851. Write often, write upon a
thousand themes, rather than long at a time, not
trying to turn too many feeble summersets in
the air, and so come down upon your head at
last. Antaeus-like, be not long absent from the
ground. Those sentences are good and well-
discharged which are like so many little resili
ences from the spring-floor of our life, each a
distinct fruit and kernel springing from terra
firma. Let there be as many distinct plants as
the soil and the light can maintain. Take as
many bounds in a day as possible, sentences
uttered with your back to the wall. Those are
the admirable bounds when the performer has
lately touched the spring-board. A good bound
into the air from the air is a good and whole
some experience, but what shall we say to a
man's leaping off precipices in the attempt to
fly. He comes down like lead. But let your
feet be planted upon the rock, with the rock
also at your back, and as in the case of King
James and Roderick Dhu, you can say, —
" Come one, come all, this rock shall fly
From its firm base, as soon as I."
Such, uttered or not, is the strength of your
sentences, sentences in which there is no strain,
no fluttering inconstant and quasi aspiration,
AUTUMN. 255
and ever memorable Icarian fall wherein your
helpless wings are expanded merely by your
swift descent into the pelagos beneath.
is one who will not stoop to rise. He
wants something for which he will not pay
the going price. He will only learn slowly
by failure, not a noble, but disgraceful failure.
This is not a worthy method of learning, to be
educated by evitable suffering, like De Quincey,
for instance. Better dive like a muskrat into
the mud, and pull up a few weeds to sit on
during the floods, a foundation of your own
laying, a house of your own building, however
cold and cheerless. Methinks the hawk that
soars so loftily, and circles so steadily and ap
parently without effort, has earned this power
by faithfully creeping on the ground as a rep
tile in a former state of existence. You must
creep before you can run, you must run before
you can fly. Better one effective bound upward
with elastic limbs from the valley, than a jump
ing from the mountain-tops with attempt to fly.
The observatories are not built high, but deep.
The foundation is equal to the superstructure.
It is more important to a distinct vision that it
be steady, than that it be from an elevated point
of view.
Walking through Ebby Hubbard's wood this
afternoon with Minott, who was actually taking
256 AUTUMN.
a walk for amusement and exercise, he said, on
seeing some white pines blown down, that you
might know that ground had been cultivated,
for otherwise they would have rooted themselves
more strongly. . . . He has a story for every
woodland path. He has hunted in them all.
Where we walked last, he had once caught a
partridge by the wing.
7 P. M. To Conantum. A still cold night.
The light of the rising moon in the east. The
ground is frozen and echoes to my tread. There
are absolutely no crickets to be heard now.
They are heard, then, till the ground freezes. I
hear no sound of any kind now at night, but
sometimes some creature stirring, a rabbit, or
skunk, or fox, betrayed by the dry leaves which
lie so thick and light. The openness of the
leafless woods is particularly apparent now by
moonlight ; they are nearly as light as the open
field. It is worth the while always to go to
the water, when there is but little light in the
heavens, and see the heavens and the stars re
flected. There is double the light that there is
elsewhere, and the reflection has the force of a
great silent companion. I thought to-night that
I saw glow-worms in the grass on the side of
the hill, was almost certain of it, and tried to
lay my hands on them, but found it was the
moonlight reflected from (apparently) the fine
AUTUMN. 257
frost crystals on the withered grass. They
were so fine that the reflections went and came
like glow-worms. The gleams were just long
enough for glow-worms, and the effect was pre
cisely the same.
Nov. 12, 1852. 4 p. M. To Cliffs. It clears
up. A very bright rainbow, three reds, two
greens. I see its foot within half a mile in the
southeast, heightening the green of the pines.
From Fair Haven Hill, I^see a very distant, long,
low, dark-blue cloud still left in the northwest
horizon, beyond the mountains, and against this
I see, apparently, a narrow white cloud resting
on every mountain, and conforming exactly to its
outline, as if the white, frilled edge of the main
cloud were turned up over them. In fact, the
massive dark-blue cloud beyond revealed these
distinct white caps resting on the mountains this
side, for twenty miles along the horizon.
The sun having set, my long, dark-blue cloud
has assumed the form of an alligator, and where
the sun has just disappeared it is split into two
tremendous jaws, between which glows the eter
nal city, its crenate lips all coppery-golden, its
serrate fiery teeth. Its body lies a slumbering
mass along the horizon.
Nov. 12, 1853. I cannot but regard it as a
kindness in those who have the steering of me,
that by the want of pecuniary wealth, I have
258 AUTUMN.
been nailed down to this my native region so
long and steadily, and made to study and love
this spot of earth more and more. What would
signify in comparison a thin and diffused love
and knowledge of the whole earth instead, got
by wandering ? Wealth will not buy a man a
home in nature. The man of business does not
by his business earn a residence in nature. It
is an insignificant, a merely negative good to be
provided with thick garments against cold and
wet, an unprofitable and weak condition com
pared with being able to extract some exhilara
tion, some warmth even, out of cold and wet
themselves, and to clothe them with our sym
pathy. The rich man buys woolens and furs,
and sits naked and shivering still, in spirit, but
the poor lord of creation makes cold and wet to
warm him, and be his garments.
The hylodes, as it is the first frog heard in the
spring, so it is the last in the autumn. I heard
it last, I think, about a month ago. I do not
remember any hum of insects for a long time,
though I heard a cricket to-day.
Nov. 12, 1858. It is much the coldest day
yet, and the ground is a little frozen and re
sounds under my tread. All people move the
brisker for the cold, are braced and a little
elated by it. They love to say, " Cold day, sir."
Though the days are shorter, you get more work
AUTUMN. 259
out of a hired man than before, for he must work
to keep warm. . . . We are now reduced to
browsing on buds and twigs, and methinks with
this diet and this cold, we shall appear to the
stall-fed thinkers like those unkempt cattle in
meadows now, grazing the withered grass.
I think the change to some higher color in a
leaf is an evidence that it has arrived at a late,
more perfect, and final maturity, answering to
the maturity of fruits, and not to that of green
leaves, etc., which merely serve a purpose. The
word ripe is thought by some to be derived from
the verb to reap, so that what is ripe is ready to
be reaped. The fall of the leaf is preceded by
a ripe old age.
Nov. 12, 1859. The first sprinkling of snow,
which for a short time whitens the ground in
spots.
I do not know how to distinguish between our
waking life and a dream. Are we not always
living the life that we imagine we are ? Fear
creates danger, and courage dispels it.
There was a remarkable sunset, I think the
twenty -fifth of October. The sunset sky
reached quite from west to east, and it was the
most varied in its forms and colors that I re
member to have seen. At one time the clouds
were softly and delicately rippled like the ripple
marks on sand. But it was hard for me to see
260 AUTUMN.
its beauty then, when my mind was filled with
Captain Brown. So great a wrong as his fate
implied overshadowed all beauty in the world.
Nov. 13, 1837. Sin destroys the perception
of the beautiful. It is a sure evidence of the
health and innocence of the beholder, if the
senses are alive to the beauty of nature. This
shall be the test of innocence, if I can hear a
taunt, and look out on this friendly moon pacing
the heavens in queen-like majesty, with the
accustomed yearning.
Truth is ever returning into herself. I glimpse
one feature to-day, another to-morrow, and the
next day they are blended.
Nov. 13, 1839. Make the most of your re
grets. Never smother your sorrow, but tend
and cherish it, till it come to have a separate
and integral interest. To regret deeply is to
live afresh. By so doing you will find yourself
restored to all your emoluments.
Nov. 13 [?], 1841. We constantly anticipate
repose. Yet it surely can only be the repose
that is in entire and healthy activity. It must
be a repose without rust. What is leisure but
opportunity for more complete and entire ac
tion? Our energies pine for exercise. The
time we spend in the discharge of our duties
is so much leisure, so that there is no man but
has sufficient of it.
AUTUMN. 261
This ancient Scotch poetry at which its con
temporaries so marveled, sounds like the uncer
tain lisping of a child. When man's speech
flows freest, it but stammers. There is never a
free and clear deliverance ; but read now when
the illusion of smooth verse is destroyed by the
antique spelling, and the sense is seen to stam
mer and stumble all the plainer. To how few
thoughts do all these sincere efforts give utter
ance? An hour's conversation with these men
would have done more. I am astonished to see
how meagre that diet is which has fed so many
men. The music of sound, which is all-sufficient
at first, is speedily lost, and then the fame of the
poet must rest on the music of the sense. A
great philosophical and moral poet would give
permanence to the language by making the best
sound convey the best sense.
Nov. 13, 1851. To Fair Haven Hill. A cold
and dark afternoon, the sun being behind clouds
in the west. The landscape is barren of objects,
the trees being leafless, and so little light in the
sky for variety ; such a day as will almost oblige
a man to eat his own heart, a day in which you
must hold on to life by your teeth. Now is the
time to cut timber for yokes and ox-bows, leav
ing the tough bark on, yokes for your own neck,
finding yourself yoked to matter and to time.
Truly hard times, these ! Not a mosquito left,
262 AUTUMN.
not an insect to hum. Crickets gone into win
ter quarters. Friends long since gone there, and
you left to walk on frozen ground with your hands
in your pockets. Ah, but is not this a glorious
time for your deep inward fires ? Will not your
green hickory and white oak burn clear in this
frosty air ? Now is not your manhood taxed by
the great Assessor ? taxed for having a soul, a
rateable soul ? A day when you cannot pluck a
flower, cannot dig a parsnip, nor pull a turnip,
for the frozen ground. What do the thoughts
find to live on ? What avails you now the fire
you stole from heaven ? Does not each thought
become a vulture to gnaw your vitals ? No In
dian summer have we had this November. I
see but few traces of the perennial spring. We
have not even the cold beauty of ice crystals
and snowy architecture. Nothing but the echo
of your steps on the frozen ground, which, it is
true, is being prepared for immeasurable snows.
Still there are brave thoughts within you that
shall remain to rustle the winter through, like
white-oak leaves upon your boughs, or like shrub
oaks that remind the traveler of a fire upon the
hillsides, or evergreen thoughts, cold even in
midsummer, by their nature. These shall con
trast the more fairly with the snow. Some
warm springs shall still tinkle and fume, and
send their column of vapor to the skies.
AUTUMN. 263
The mountains are of an uncommonly dark
blue to-day. Perhaps this is owing not only to
the great clearness of the atmosphere, which
makes them seem nearer, but to the absence of
the leaves. A little mistiness occasioned by
warmth would set them further off. I see snow
on the Peterboro' Hills reflecting the sun. It is
pleasant thus to look from afar into winter. We
look at a condition which we have not reached.
Notwithstanding the poverty of the immediate
landscape, in the horizon it is simplicity and gran
deur. I look into valleys white with snow and
now lit up by the sun, while all this country is
in shade. There is a great gap in the mountain
range just south of the two Peterboro' Hills.
Methinks I have been through it, and that a road
runs there. Humble as these mountains are
compared with some, at this distance I am con
vinced they answer the purpose of Andes. Seen
at this distance, I know of nothing more grand
and stupendous than that great mountain gate
or pass, a great cleft or sinus in the blue banks,
as in a dark evening cloud, fit portal to lead
from one country, from one quarter of the world
to another, where the children of Israel might
file through. Little does the New Hampshire
farmer who drives over that road realize through
what a sublime gap he is passing. You would
almost as soon think of a road as winding
264 AUTUMN.
through and over a dark evening cloud. This
prospect of the mountains from our low hills is
what I would rather have than pastures on the
mountain-side such as my neighbors have, aye,
than townships at their base. Instead of driv
ing my cattle up there in May, I simply turn my
eyes thither. They pasture there, and the grass
they feed on never withers.
Just spent a couple of hours (8 to 10) with
Miss Mary Emerson at Holbrook's ; the witti
est and most vivacious woman I know, certainly
that woman among my acquaintance whom it
is most profitable to meet, the least frivolous,
who will most surely provoke to good conver
sation. She is singular among women, at least,
in being really and perseveringly interested to
know what thoughtful people think. She re
lates herself surely to the intellectual wherever
she goes. It is perhaps her greatest praise and
peculiarity that she more surely than any other
woman gives her companion occasion to utter his
best thought. In spite of her own biases, she
can entertain a large thought with hospitality,
and is not prevented by any intellectuality in
it, as women commonly are. In short, she is a
genius, as woman seldom is, reminding you less
often of her sex than any woman whom I know.
Thus she is capable of a masculine appreciation
of poetry and philosophy. I never talked with
AUTUMN. 265
any other woman who I thought accompanied
me so far in describing a poetic experience.
Miss Fuller is the only other I think of in this
connection, and of her rather from her fame
than from my knowledge of her. Miss Emer
son expressed to-night a singular want of respect
for her own sex, saying that they were frivolous,
almost without exception, that woman was the
weaker vessel, etc. ; and that into whatever fam
ily she might go, she depended more upon the
clown for society than upon the lady of the
house. Men are more likely to have opinions
of their own.
Just in proportion to the outward poverty is
the inward wealth. In cold weather fire burns
with a clearer flame.
Nov. 13, 1855. In mid - forenoon, 10.45,
seventy or eighty geese, in three harrows, suc
cessively smaller, flying southwest, pretty well
west, over the house. A completely overcast,
occasionally drizzling forenoon. I at once heard
their clangor, and rushed to and opened the
window. The three harrows were gradually
formed into one great one, before they were out
of sight, the geese shifting their places without
slacking their progress.
p. M. To Cardinal Shore. I saw in the pond
by the roadside, a few rods before me, the sun
shining bright, a mink swimming, the whole
266 AUTUMN.
length of his back out. It was a rich brown fur,
glowing internally as the sun fell on it, like some
ladies' boas ; not black, as it sometimes appears,
especially on ice. It landed within three rods,
showing its long, somewhat cat-like neck, and I
observed, was carrying something by its mouth,
dragging it overland. At first I thought it a
fish, maybe an eeL, and when it had got half a
dozen feet, I ran forward, and it dropped its
prey, and went into the wall. It was a muskrat,
the head and part of the legs torn off and gone,
but the rest still fresh and quite heavy, including
hind legs and tail. It had probably killed the
muskrat in the brook, eaten so much, and was
dragging the remainder to its retreat in the wall.
JVoi'. 13, 1858. It is wonderful what grada
tion and harmony there is in nature. The light
reflected from bare twigs at this season, that is,
since they began to be bare, in the latter part of
October, is not unlike that from gossamer, and
like that which will erelong be reflected from
the ice that will incrust them. So the bleached
herbage of the fields is like frost, and frost like
snow, and one prepares for the other.
Nw. 14 [?], 1841. To find the sunset de
scribed by the old Scotch poet, Douglas, as I
have seen it, repays me for many weary pages of
antiquated Scotch. Nothing so restores and har
monizes antiquity and makes it blithe, as the
AUTUMN. 267
discovery of some natural sympathy. Why is
it that there is something melancholy in anti
quity? "We forget that it had any other future
than our present, as if it were not as near to
the future as ourselves. No, these ranks of
men to right and left, posterity and ancestry, are
not to be thridded by any earnest mortal. The
heavens stood over the heads of our ancestors as
near as to us. Any living word in their books
abolishes the difference of time. It need only
be considered from the present standpoint.
Nov. 14, 1851. In the evening I went to a
party. It is a bad place to go to, thirty or forty
persons, mostly young women, in a small room,
warm and noisy. Was introduced to two young
women. The first was as lively and loquacious
as a chickadee, had been accustomed to the
society of watering places, and therefore could
get no refreshment out of such a dry fellow as I.
The other was said to be pretty looking, but I
rarely look people in their faces, and, moreover,
I could not hear what she said, there was such a
clacking ; could not see the motion of her lips
when I looked that way. I could imagine bet
ter places for conversation, where there should
be a certain degree of silence surrounding you,
and less than forty talking at once. Why, this
afternoon even I did better. Old Mr. Joseph
Hosmer and I ate luncheon of cracker and
268 AUTUMN.
cheese together in the woods. I heard all he
said, though it was not much, to be sure, and
he could hear me ; and then he talked out of
such a glorious repose, taking a leisurely bite at
the cracker and cheese between his words, and
so some of him was communicated to me, and
some of me to him, I trust.
These parties, I think, are a part of the
machinery of modern society that young people
may be brought together to form marriage con
nections.
What is the use in going to see people whom
yet you never see, and who never see you ?
I met a man yesterday afternoon in the road
who behaved as if he were deaf, and I talked
with him in the cold in a loud tone for fifteen
minutes, but that uncertainty about his ears, and
the necessity I felt to talk loudly, took off the
fine edge of what I had to say, and prevented
my saying anything satisfactory. It is bad
enough when your neighbor does not understand
you, but if there is any uncertainty as to whether
he hears you, so that you are obliged to become
your own auditor, you are so much the poorer
speaker, and so there is a double failure.
Nov. 14, 1852. Still, yarrow, tall buttercup
and tansy.
Nov. 14, 1855. Heard to-day in my cham
ber about 11 A. M. a singular sharp, crackling
AUTUMN. 269
sound by the window, which made me think of
an insect's snapping with its wings or striking
something. It was produced by one of three
small pitch-pine cones which I gathered No
vember 7th, and which lay in the sun on the win
dow-sill. 1 noticed a slight motion in the scales
at the apex, when suddenly, with a louder crack
ling, it burst, or the scales separated with a
crackling sound on all sides of it. It was a
sudden and general bursting or expanding of all
the scales with a sharp, crackling sound, and
motion of the whole cone as by a force pent up
within it. I suppose the strain only needed to
be relieved at one point for the whole to go off.
Nov. 14, 1857. The principal flight of geese
was November 8th, so that the bulk of them
preceded this cold turn five days. I find my
hands stiffened and involuntarily finding their
way to my pockets. No wonder that the weather
is a standing subject of conversation, since we
are so sensitive. If we had not gone through
several winters, we might well be alarmed at the
approach of cold weather. With this keener
blast my hands suddenly fail to fulfill their office,
as it were, begin to die. We must put on armor
against the new foe. I can hardly tie and untie
my shoestrings. What a story to tell an inhab
itant of the tropics, perchance, that you went
to walk after many months of warmth, when
270 AUTUMN.
suddenly the air became so cold and hostile to
your nature that it benumbed you, so that you
lost the use of some of your limbs, could not
untie your shoestrings !
Nov. 14, 1858. Now while the frosty air be
gins to nip your fingers and your nose, the frozen
ground rapidly wears away the soles of your
shoes, as sandpaper might. . The old she-wolf is
nibbling at your very extremities. The frozen
ground eating away the soles of your shoes is
only typical of the vulture that gnaws your heart
this month. Now all that moves migrates or
has migrated, ducks are gone by, the citizen has
sought the town.
Probably the witch hazel and many other
flowers lingered till the eleventh, when it was
colder. The last leaves and flowers (?) may be
said to fall about the middle of November.
Snow and cold drive the doves to your door,
and so your thoughts make new alliances.
Nov. 14, 1860. Yellow butterflies still.
Nov. 15, 1840. Over and above a man's
business there must be a level of undisturbed
serenity, only the more serene, as he is the more
industrious, as within the reef encircling a coral
isle there is always an expanse of still water
where the depositions are going on which will
finally raise it above the surface. He must pre
side over all he does. If his employment rob
AUTUMN. 271
him of a serene outlook over his life, it is but
idle, though it be measuring the fixed stars. He
must know no distracting cares.
The bad sense is the secondary one.
Nov. 15 [?], 1841. A mild summer sun
shines over forest and lake. The earth looks as
fair this morning as the Valhalla of the gods.
Indeed our spirits never go beyond nature. In
the woods there is an inexpressible happiness.
Their mirth is but just repressed. In winter
when there is but one green leaf for many rods,
what warm content is in them. They are not
rude, but tender, even in the severest cold.
Their nakedness is their defense. All their
sights and sounds are elixir to my spirit. They
possess a choice health. God is not more well.
Every sound is inspiriting, and fraught with the
same mysterious assurance from the creaking of
the boughs in January to the soft sigh of the
wind in July.
How much of my well-being, think you, de
pends on the condition of my lungs and stomach,
such cheap pieces of Nature as they, which in
deed she is every day reproducing with prodigal
ity ? Is that arrow indeed fatal which rankles
in the breast of the bird on the bough, in whose
eye all this fair landscape is reflected, and whose
voice still echoes through the wood ?
This is my argument in reserve for all cases.
272 AUTUMN.
My love is invulnerable. Meet me on that
ground, and you will find me strong. When I
am condemned, and condemn myself, I think
straightway, But I love some things. Therein I
am whole and entire. Therein I am God-propped.
When I see the smoke curling up through the
woods from some farmhouse invisible, it is more
suggestive of the poetry of rural and domestic
life than a nearer inspection can be. Up goes
the smoke as quietly as the dew exhales in vapor,
as busy as the housewife below, disposing itself
in circles and wreaths. It is contemporary with
a piece of human biography, and waves as a
feather in some man's cap. Under that rod of
sky there is some plot a-brewing, some ingenuity
has planted itself, and we shall see what it will
do. It tattles of more things than the boiling of
a pot. It is but one of man's breaths. All that
is interesting in history or fiction is transpiring
beneath that cloud. The subject of all life and
death, of happiness and grief, goes thereunder.
When the traveler in the forest, attaining to
some eminence, discovers a column of smoke in
the distance, it is a very gentle hint to him of
the presence of man. It seems as if it would
establish friendly relations between them with
out more ado.
Nov. 15, 1851. Here is a rainy day which
keeps me in the house. I am pleased to read in
AUTUMN. 273
Stoerer's [?] " Life of Linnaeus " (Trapp's trans
lation) that his father, being the first learned
man of his family, changed his family name, and
borrowed that of Linnaeus (Linden-tree man)
from a lofty linden tree which stood near his na
tive place ; " a custom," he says, " not unfrequent
in Sweden, to take fresh appellations from natural
objects." What more fit than that the advent of
a new man into a family should acquire for it
and transmit to posterity a new patronymic!
Such a custom suggests, if it does not argue, an
unabated vigor in the race, relating it to those
primitive times when men did indeed acquire a
name as memorable and distinct as their char
acters. It is refreshing to find a man whom you
cannot feel satisfied to call John's son or John
son's son, but by a new name applicable to him
self alone, he being the first of his kind. We
may say there have been but so many men as
there are surnames, and of all the John Smiths
there has been but one true John Smith, and he
of course is dead. Get yourself, therefore, a
name, and better a nickname than none at all.
There was one enterprising boy came to school
to me whose name was " Buster," and an honor
able name it was. He was the only boy in the
school, to my knowledge, who was named.
What shall we say of the comparative intel
lectual vigor of ancients and moderns, when we
274 AUTUMN.
read of Theophrastus, the father of botany, that
he composed more than two hundred treatises in
the third century before Christ and the seven
teenth before printing, about twenty of which
remain, and that these fill six volumes in folio
printed at Venice ; among the last are two works
on natural history, and one on the generation of
plants.
"By his own avowal" [Pliny the elder's]
"Natural History is a compilation from about
twenty-five hundred different authors."
Nov. 15, 1853. After having some business
dealings with men, I am occasionally chagrined,
and feel as if I had done some wrong, and it is
hard to forget the ugly circumstance. I see that
such intercourse long continued would make one
thoroughly prosaic, hard, and coarse. But the
longest intercourse with Nature, though in her
rudest moods, does not thus harden and make
coarse. A hard, insensible man whom we liken
to a rock, is indeed much harder than a rock.
From hard, coarse, insensible men with whom I
have no sympathy, I go to commune with the
rocks, whose hearts are comparatively soft.
I was the other night elected a curator of our
Lyceum, but was obliged to decline, because 1
did not know where to find good lecturers enough
to make a course for the winter. We commonly
think we cannot have a good journal in New
AUTUMN. 275
England, because we have not enough writers of
ability. But we do not suspect likewise that
we have not good lecturers enough to make a
Lyceum.
This afternoon has wanted no condition to
make it a gossamer day, it seems to me, but a
calm atmosphere. Plainly the spiders cannot be
abroad on the water, unless it is smooth. The
one I witnessed this fall was at time of flood.
May it be that they are driven out of their re
treats like muskrats and sriowfleas, and spin
these lines for their support? Yet they work
on the causeway, too.
Nov. 15, 1857. P. M. To Holden swamp and
C. Miles swamp. My walk is the more lonely
when I perceive that there are no ants upon the
hillocks in field or wood. These are deserted
mounds. They have commenced their winter
sleep. The water is frozen solid in the leaves
of the pitcher plant. This is the thickest ice
I have seen. This water was most exposed in
the cool swamp.
Going by my owl-nest oak, I saw that it had
broken off at the hole, and the top fallen, but
seeing in the cavity some leaves, I climbed up to
see what kind of nest it was. I took out the
leaves slowly, watching to see what spoils had
been left with them. Some were pretty green,
and all had evidently been placed there this fall.
276 AUTUMN.
When I had taken all out with my left hand,
holding on to the top of the stump with my right,
I looked round into the cleft, and there I saw
sitting nearly erect at the bottom in one corner,
a little mus leucopus, panting with fear, and
with its large black eyes upon me. I held my
face thus within seven or eight inches of it as
long as I cared to hold on there, and it showed
no sign of retreating. "When I put in my hand,
it merely withdrew downward into a snug little
nest of hypnum and apparently the dirty-white,
wool-like pappus of some plant, as big as a bat
ting ball. Wishing to see its tail, I stirred it up
again, when it suddenly rushed up the side of the
cleft out over my shoulder and right arm, and
leaped off, falling down through a thin hemlock
spray some sixteen or eighteen feet to the ground
on the hillside, where I lost sight of it. These
nests, I suppose, are made when the trees are
losing their leaves, as those of the squirrels are.
Nov. 15, 1859. A very pleasant Indian sum
mer day. P. M. To Ledum swamp. I look up
the river from the railroad bridge. It is per
fectly smooth between the uniformly tawny
meadows, and I see several muskrat cabins off
Hubbard shore, distinctly outlined, as usual, in
the November light. I hear in several places a
faint cricket note, either a fine s-ing, or a dis-
tincter creak ; also see and hear a grasshopper's
AUTUMN. 277
crackling flight. The clouds were never more
fairly reflected in the water than now, as I look
up the cyanean reach from Clamshell. A fine
gossamer is streaming from every fence, tree, and
stubble, though a careless observer woidd not
notice it. As I look along over the grass toward
the sun at Hosmer's field beyond Lupine Hill, I
notice the shimmering effect of the gossamer,
which seems to cover it almost like a web, occa
sioned by its motion, though the air is so still.
This is noticed at least forty rods off. I turn
down Witherel Glade, only that I may bring its
tufts of andropogon between me and the sun.
It is a fact proving how universal and widely
related any transcendent greatness is, like the
apex of a pyramid to all beneath it, that when I
now look over my extracts of the noblest poetry,
the best is oftenest applicable in part or wholly
to this man's [Captain John Brown's] position.
Almost any noble verse may be read either as
his elegy or eulogy, or be made the text of an
oration about him; indeed such are now first
discovered to be parts of a divinely established lit
urgy applicable to these rare cases for which the
ritual of no church has provided, — the case of
heroes, martyrs, and saints. This is the formula
established on high, their burial service, to which
every great genius has contributed its line or
syllable. Of course the ritual of no church
278 AUTUMN.
which is wedded to the state can contain a ser
vice applicable to the case of a state criminal
unjustly condemned, a martyr. The sense of
grand poetry read by the light of this event is
brought out distinctly, like an invisible writing
held to the fire.
Nov. 16, 1850. I am accustomed to regard
the smallest brook with as much interest, for
the time being, as if it were the Orinoco or Mis
sissippi, and when a tributary rill empties into
it, it is like the confluence of famous rivers I
have read of. When I cross one on a fence, I
love to pause in mid-passage and look down into
the water, and study its bottom, its little mys
tery. There is none so small but you may see
a pickerel regarding you with a wary eye, or a
pigmy trout dart from under the bank, or in
spring perchance a sucker will have found its
way far up the stream. You are sometimes as
tonished to see a pickerel far up some now
shrunken rill where it is a mere puddle by the
roadside. I have stooped to drink at a clear
spring no bigger than a bushel basket, in a
meadow, from which a rill was scarcely seen to
dribble away, and seen lurking at its bottom
two little pickerel not so big as my finger, sole
monarchs of this their ocean, and who probably
would never visit a larger water.
I hear deep amid the birches some row among
AUTUMN. 279
the birds or the squirrels, where evidently some
mystery is being developed to them. The jay is
on the alert, mimicking every woodland note.
"What has happened? who's dead?" The
twitter retreats before you, and you are never
let into the secret. Some tragedy surely is
being enacted, but murder will out. How many
little dramas are enacted in the depths of the
woods at which man is not present !
There seems to be in the fall a sort of attempt
at spring, a rejuvenescence, as if the winter were
not expected by a part of nature. Violets, dan
delions, and some other flowers blossom again,
and mulleins and innumerable other plants be
gin again to spring, and are only checked by the
increasing cold. There is a slight uncertainty
whether there will be any winter this year.
Some of our richest days are those in which
no sun shines outwardly, but so much the more
a sun shines inwardly. I love nature, I love
the landscape, because it is so sincere. It never
cheats me, it never jests, it is cheerfully, musi
cally earnest. I lie and rely on the earth.
The sweet-scented life-everlasting has not lost
its scent yet, but smells like the balm of the
fields.
The partridge-berry leaves checker the ground
on moist hillsides in the woods. Are not they
properly called checker-berries ?
280 AUTUMN.
My journal should be the record of my love.
\ would write in it only of the things I love,
my affection for an aspect of the world, what I
love to think of. I have no more distinctness
or pointedness in my yearnings than an expand
ing bud which does indeed point to flower and
fruit, to summer and autumn, but is aware of
the warm sun and spring influence only. I feel
ripe for something, yet do nothing, can't dis
cover what that thing is. I feel fertile merely.
It is seedtime with me. I have lain fallow long
enough.
Notwithstanding a sense of unworthiness
which possesses me not without reason, notwith
standing that I regard myself as a good deal of
a scamp, yet for the most part the spirit of the
universe is unaccountably kind to me, and I
enjoy perhaps an unusual share of happiness.
But I question sometimes if there is not some
settlement to come.
Nov. 16, 1851. It is remarkable that the
highest intellectual mood which the world toler
ates is the perception of the truth of the most
ancient revelations, now in some respects out of
date, but any direct revelation, any original
thought, it hates like virtue. So far as think
ing is concerned, surely original thinking is the
divinest thing. We should reverently watch
for the least motions, the least scintillations of
AUTUMN. 281
thought in this sluggish world, and men should
run to and fro on the occasion more than at an
earthquake. We check and repress the divinity
that stirs within us to fall down and worship
the divinity that is dead without us. I go to
see many a good man or good woman, so called,
and utter freely that thought which alone it
was given me to utter, but there was a man who
lived a long, long time ago and his name was
Moses, and another whose name was Christ, and
if your thought does not, or does not appear to,
coincide with what they said, the good man or
good woman has no ears to hear you. They
think they love God ! It is only his old clothes,
which they make scarecrows for the children.
When will they come nearer to God than in
these very children? A man lately preached
here against the abuse of the sabbath, and recom
mended to walk in the fields and dance on that
day. Good advice enough, which may take ef
fect after a while. But with the mass of men,
the reason is convinced long before the life is.
They may see the church and the sabbath to be
false, but nothing else to be true. One woman
in the neighborhood says, u Nobody can hear
Mr. preach, hear him through, without see
ing that he is a good man." " Well, is there
any truth in what he says?" asks another. " Oh
yes, it 's true enough, but then it won't do, you
282 AUTUMN.
know, it won't do. Now, there 's our George,
lie 's got the whole of it ; and when I say,
4 Come, George, put on your things, and go
along to meeting,' he says, ' No, mother, I 'm
going out into the fields.' It won't do." The
fact is, this woman has not character and reli
gion enough to exeyt a controlling influence over
her children by her example, and knows of no
such police as the church and the minister.
If it were not for death and funerals, I think
the institution of the church would not stand
longer. The necessity that men be decently
buried, our fathers and mothers, brothers and
sisters and children (notwithstanding the dan
ger that they be buried alive), will long, if not
forever, prevent our laying violent hands on it.
If salaries were stopped off, and men walked
out of this world bodily at last, the minister and
his vocation would be gone.
That sounds like a fine mode of expressing
gratitude referred to by Linna3us. Hermann
was a botanist who gave up his place to Tourne-
fort, who was unprovided for. "Hermann,"
says Linnaeus, " came afterwards to Paris, and
Tournefort in honor of him ordered the foun
tains to play in the royal garden."
Nov. 16, 1852. 9 A. M. Sail up river to
Lee's bridge. Colder weather and very windy,
but still no snow. Very little ice along the
AUTUMN. 283
edge of the river which does not melt before
night. Muskrat houses completed; interesting
objects, looking down a river-reach at this sea
son, and our river should not be represented
without one or two of these cones. They are
quite conspicuous half a mile distant, and are of
too much importance to be omitted in the river
landscape. I see one duck. The pines on shore
look very cold, reflecting a silvery light. The
waves run high with white caps, and communi
cate a pleasant motion to the boat. At Lee's
Cliff the cerastium viscosum. We sailed up
Well-meadow brook. The water is singularly
grayish, clear and cold, the bottom of the brook
showing great nuphar roots, like its ribs, with
some budding leaves.
The water is frozen in the pitcher-plant leaf.
The swamp pink and blueberry buds attract.
Nov. 16, 1854. P. M. Sailed to Hubbard's
bridge. Almost every muskrat's house is cov
ered by the flood, though they were unusually
high as well as numerous, and the river is not
nearly so high as last year. I see where they
have begun to raise them another story. A few
cranberries begin to wash up, and rails, boards,
etc., may now -be collected by wreckers.
Nov. 16, 1858. Preaching? lecturing? Who
are ye that ask for these things ? What do you
want to hear, ye puling infants? A trumpet
284 AUTUMN.
sound that would train you up to manhood ? or
a nurse's lullaby ? The preachers and lecturers
deal with men of straw, as they are men of straw
themselves. Why, a free-spoken man, of sound
lungs, cannot draw a long breath, without caus
ing your rotten institutions to come toppling
down, by the vacuum he makes. Your church
is a baby-house made of blocks, and so of the
state. It would be a relief to breathe one's self
occasionally, among men. Freedom of speech!
It hath not entered into your hearts to conceive
what those words mean. The church, the state,
the school, the magazine, think they are liberal
and free ! It is the freedom of a prison yard.
What is it you tolerate, you church to-day?
Not truth, but a life-long hypocrisy. The voice
that goes up from the monthly concerts is not so
brave and cheery as that which rises from the
frog-ponds of the land. Look at your editors of
popular magazines. I have dealt with two or
three of the most liberal of them. They are
afraid to print a whole sentence, a sound sen
tence, a free-spoken sentence. We want to get
30,000 subscribers, and will do anything to get
them. They consult the D. D.'s and all the
letters of the alphabet, before printing a sen
tence.
Nov. 17, 1837. If there is nothing new on
earth, still there is something new in the heav-
AUTUMN. 285
ens. We have always a resource in the skies.
They are constantly turning a new page to view.
The wind sets the types in their blue ground,
and the inquiring may always read a new truth
there.
Nov. 17, 1850. I found this afternoon in a
field of winter rye, a snapping-turtle's egg, white
and elliptical like a pebble, mistaking it for
which I broke it. The little turtle was per
fectly formed, even to the dorsal ridge, which
was distinctly visible.
Nov. 17, 1851. All things tend to flow to
him who can make the best use of them, even
away from their legal owner. A thief, finding
with the property of the Italian naturalist,
Donati, whom he had robbed abroad, a collec
tion of rare African seeds, forwarded them
to Linnaeus from Marseilles. Donati suffered
shipwreck, and never returned.
Nov. 17, 1853. I notice that many plants
about this season of the year or earlier, after
they have died down at top, put forth fresh
and conspicuous radical leaves against another
spring ; so some human beings in the November
of their days, exhibit some fresh radical green
ness, which, though the frosts may soon nip it,
indicates and confirms their essential greenness.
When their summer leaves have faded and
fallen, they put forth fresh radical leaves which
286 AUTUMN.
sustain the life in their root still, against a new
spring. The dry fields have, for a long time,
been spotted with the small radical leaves of
the fragrant life-everlasting, not to mention the
large primrose, John's-wort, etc. Almost every
plant, although it may show 110 greenness above
ground, if you dig about it, will be found to
have fresh shoots already pointing upward, and
ready to burst forth in the spring.
Nov. 17, 1854. Paddled up river to Clam
shell, and sailed back. I think it must have
been a fishhawk which I saw hovering over the
meadow and my boat (a raw, cloudy afternoon),
now and then sustaining itself in one place, a
hundred feet or more above the water, intent on
a fish, with a hovering or fluttering motion of
the wings, somewhat like a kingfisher. Its
wings were very long, slender, and curved in
outline of front edge, thus, perhaps. I
think there was some white on rump. It
alighted near the top of an oak within rifle-shot
of me, afterward on the tip top of a maple by
waterside, looking very large.
Nov. 17, '1855. It is interesting to me to
talk with Rice, he lives so thoroughly and satis
factorily to himself. He has learned that rare
art of living, the very elements of which most
persons do not know. His life has been not a
failure, but a success. Seeing me going to
AUTUMN. 287
sharpen some plane irons, and hearing me com
plain of the want of tools, he said I ought to
have a chest of tools. But I said it was not
worth the while. I should not use them enough
to pay for them. " You would use, them more,
if you had them," said he. " When I came to
do a piece of work, I used to find commonly
that I wanted a certain tool, and I made it a
rule first always to make that tool. I have
spent as much as §3,000 thus in my tools."
Comparatively speaking, his life is a success ;
not such a failure as most men's. He gets more
out of any enterprise than his neighbors, for he
helps himself more, and hires less. Whatever
pleasure there is in it he enjoys. By good sense
and calculation he has become rich, and has in
vested his property well, yet practices a fair and
neat economy, dwells not in untidy luxury. It
costs him less to live, and he gets more out of
life than others. To get his living or keep it
is not a hasty or disagreeable toil. He works
slowly, but surely, enjoying the sweet of it. He
buys a piece of meadow at a profitable rate,
works it in pleasant weather, he and his son,
when they are inclined, goes a-fishing or bee-
hunting, or rifle - shooting quite as often, and
thus the meadow gets redeemed, and potatoes
get planted perchance, and he is very sure to
have a good crop stored in his cellar in the fall,
288 AUTUMN.
and some to sell. He always has the best of
potatoes there. In the same spirit in which he
and his son tackle up their Dobbin (he never
keeps a fast horse) and go a-spearing or fishing
through the ^ce, they also tackle up and go to
their Sudbury farm to hoe or harvest a little,
and when they return they bring home in their
hay-rigging a load of stumps which had impeded
their labors, but may supply them with their
winter wood. All the woodchucks they shoot
or trap in the bean-field are brought home also.
Thus their life is a long sport, and they know
not what hard times are.
Labaume says that he wrote his journal of
the campaign in Russia each night in the midst
of incredible danger and suffering, with " a
raven's quill and a little gunpowder mixed with
some melted snow, in the hollow of my hand,"
the quill cut and mended with " the knife with
which I had carved my scanty morsel of horse
flesh." Such a statement promises well for the
writer's qualifications to treat such a theme.
Nov. 17, 1858. P. M. Up Assabet. The
muskrats are more active since the cold weather.
I see more of them about the river now, swim
ming across back and forth, and diving in the
middle where I lose them. They dive off the
round-backed black mossy stones, which when
small and slightly exposed look much like
AUTUMN. 289
themselves. In swimming, show commonly
three parts, with water between. One, sitting
in the sun, as if for warmth, on the opposite
shore to me, looks quite reddish-brown. They
avail themselves of the edge of the ice now
found along the sides of the river, to feed on.
The very sunlight on the pale-brown bleached
fields is an interesting object these cold days.
I naturally look toward it as to a wood fire.
Not only different objects are presented to our
attention at different seasons of the year, but
we are in a frame of body and of mind to appre
ciate different objects at different seasons. I see
one thing when it is cold and another when it
is warm.
We are interested at this season by the mani
fold ways in which the light is reflected to us.
Ascending a little knoll covered with sweet fern,
the sun appearing but little above the sweet
fern, its light was reflected from a dense mass
of the bare, downy twigs of this plant in a sur
prising manner which would not be believed, if
described. It was quite like the sunlight re
flected from grass and weeds covered with hoar
frost. Yet in an ordinary light, these are but
dark or dusky-looking with scarcely a noticeable
downiness. But as I saw them, there was a per
fect halo of light resting on the knoll. I moved
to right or left. A myriad of surfaces are now
290 AUTUMN.
prepared to reflect the light. This is one of
the hundred silvery lights of November. The
setting sun, too, is reflected from windows more
brightly than at any other season. " November
lights " would be a theme for me.
Nature is moderate, and loves degrees. Win
ter is not all white and sere. Some trees are
evergreen to cheer us, and on the forest floor
our eyes do not fall on sere brown leaves alone,
but some evergreen shrubs are placed there to
relieve the eye. Mountain laurel, lambkill,
checkerberry, wintergreen, etc., keep up the
semblance of summer still.
Nov. 17, 1859. Another Indian-summer day,
as fair as any we have had. I go down the
railroad to Andromeda Ponds this afternoon.
I have been so absorbed of late in Captain
Brown's fate as to be surprised wherever I de
tected the old routine surviving still, met per
sons going about their affairs indifferent. It
appeared strange to me that the little dipper
should be still diving in the river as of yore,
and it suggested to me that this grebe might be
diving here when Concord shall be no more.
Any affecting human event may blind our eyes
to natural objects.
How fair and memorable this prospect, when
you stand opposite the sun, these "November
afternoons, and look over the red andromeda
AUTUMN. 291
swamp, a glowing, warm brown-red in the In
dian summer sun, like a bed of moss in a hollow
in the woods, with gray high - blueberry, and
straw - colored grasses interspersed ; and when,
going round it, you look over it in the opposite
direction, it presents a gray aspect.
JVov. 18, 1837. Nature makes no noise.
The howling storm, the rustling leaf, the patter
ing rain, are no disturbance. There is an essen
tial and unexplored harmony in them. Why is
it that thought flows with so deep and sparkling
a current when the sound of distant music
strikes the ear ? When I would muse I com
plain not of a rattling tune on the piano, a
Battle of Prague even, if it be harmony, but an
irregular, discordant drumming is intolerable.
When a shadow flits across the landscape of
the soul, where is the substance ? Has it always
its origin in sin ? and is that sin in me ?
Nov. 18, 1841. Some men make their due
impression upon their generation because a
petty occasion is enough to call forth all their
energies; but are there not others who would
rise to much higher levels, whom the world has
never provoked to make the effort ? I believe
there are men now living who have never opened
their mouths in a public assembly, in whom
nevertheless there is such a well of eloquence
that the appetite of any age could never exhaust
292 AUTUMN.
it, who pine for an occasion worthy of them,
and will pine till they are dead, who can admire
as well as the rest the flowing speech of the
orator, but do yet miss the thunder and light
ning, and visible sympathy of the elements
which would garnish their own utterance. The
age may well pine that it cannot put to use the
gift of the gods. He lives on still unconcerned,
not needing to be used. The greatest occasion
will be the slowest to come.
If, in any strait, I see a man fluttered and his
ballast gone, then I lose all hope of him, he is
undone ; but if he reposes still, though he do no
thing else worthy of him, if he is still a man in
reserve, there is then everything to hope of him.
Sometimes a body of men do unconsciously
assert that their will is fate, that the right is
decided by their fiat, without appeal, and when
this is the case, they can never be mistaken ; as
when one man is quite silenced by the thrilling
eloquence of another, and submits to be neg--
lected, as to his fate, because such is not the
willful vote of the assembly, but their instinctive
decision.
Nov. 18, 1851. Surveying these days the
Ministerial lot. Now at sundown I hear the
hooting of an owl, hoo h6o hoo-hoorer-hoo. It
sounds like the hooting of an idiot or a maniac
broke loose. . This is faintly answered in a dif-
AUTUMN. 293
f erent strain, apparently from a greater distance,
almost as if it were the echo, that is, so far as the
succession is concerned. I heard it last evening.
The men who help me, call it the hooting owl,
and think it is the cat-owl. It is a sound ad
mirably suited to the swamp and to the twilight
woods, suggesting a vast undeveloped nature
which men have not recognized.
The chopper who works in the woods all day
for many weeks or months at a time, becomes
intimately acquainted with them in his way. He
is more open, in many respects, to the impres
sions they are fitted to make than the naturalist
who goes to see them. He is not liable to exag
gerate insignificant featured. He really forgets
himself, forgets to observe, and at night he
dreams of the swamp, its phenomena and events.
Not so the naturalist ; enough of his unconscious
life does not pass there. A man can hardly
be said to be there, if he knows that he is there,
or to go there if he knows where he is going.
The man who is bent upon his work is fre
quently in the best attitude to observe what is
irrelevant to his work. (Mem. Wordsworth's
observations on relaxed attention.) You must
be conversant with things for a long time to
know much about them, like the moss which has
hung from the spruce, and as the partridge and
the rabbit are acquainted with the thickets, and
294 AUTUMN.
at length have acquired the color of the places
they frequent. If the man of science can put all
his knowledge into propositions, the woodman
has a great deal of incommunicable knowledge.
Nov. 18, 1852. Yarrow and tansy still.
Nov. 18, 1853. Conchologists call those shells
"which are fished up from the depths of the
ocean " and are never seen on the shore, pelagii,
but those which are cast on shore and are
never so delicate and beautiful as the former, on
account of exposure and abrasion, littorales. So
is it with the thoughts of poets. Some are fresh
from the deep sea, radiant with unimagined
beauty, — pelagii ; but others are comparatively
worn, having been tossed by many a tide, scaled
off, abraded, and eaten by worms, — littorales.
Nov. 18, 1854. Saw sixty geese go over the
Great Fields in one waving line broken from
time to time by their crowding on each other
and vainly endeavoring to form into a harrow,
honking all the while.
Nov. 18, 1855. Men foolishly prefer gold to
that of which it is the symbol, simple, honest,
independent labor. Can gold be said to buy
food, if it does not buy an appetite for food ?
It is fouler and uglier to have too much than
not to have enough.
Nov. 18 [?], 1857. Much cold slate-colored
cloud, bare twigs seen gleaming toward the
AUTUMN. 295
light like gossamer, pure green of pines where
old leaves have fallen, reddish or yellowish-
brown oak leaves rustling on the hillsides, very
pale brown, bleaching almost hoary fine grass
or hay in the fields, akin to the frost which has
killed it, and flakes of clear yellow sunlight
falling on it here and there, — such is November.
The fine grass killed by the frost, and bleached
till it is almost silvery, has clothed the fields for
a long time.
Now, as in the spring, we rejoice in sheltered
and sunny places. Some corn is left out still.
Flannery is the hardest-working man I know.
Before sunrise and long after sunset he is tax
ing his unweariable muscles. The result is a
singular cheerfulness. He is always in good
spirits. He often overflows with his joy, when
you perceive no occasion for it. If only the
gate sticks, some of it bubbles up and overflows
in his passing comment on that accident. How
much mere industry proves ! There is a sparkle
often in his passing remark, and his voice is
really like that of a bird.
In one light, these are old and worn-out
fields that I ramble over, and men have gone to
law about them long before I was born, but I
trust that I ramble over them in a new fashion,
and redeem them.
There are many ways of feeling one's pulse.
296 AUTUMN.
In a healthy state, the constant experience is a
pleasurable sensation or sentiment. For in
stance, in such a state I find myself in perfect
connection with nature, and the perception and
remembrance even, of any natural phenomena
is attended with a gentle, pleasurable excite
ment. Prevailing sights and sounds make the
impression of beauty and music on me. But in
sickness all is deranged. I had yesterday a kink
in my back and a general cold, and as usual it
amounted to a cessation of life. I lost for the
time my support or relation to nature. Sympa
thy with nature is an evidence of perfect health.
You cannot perceive beauty but with a serene
mind. The cheaper your amusements, the safer
and surer. They who think much of theatres,
operas, and the like, are beside themselves.
Each man's necessary path, though as obscure
and apparently uneventful as that of a beetle
in the grass, is the way to the deepest joys he is
susceptible of. Though he converses only with
moles and fungi, and disgraces his relatives, it
is no matter, if he knows what is steel to his
flint. Many a man who should rather describe
his dinner imposes on us with a history of the
Grand Khan.
Nov. 18, 1858. p. M. To Conantum. I
look south from the Cliff, the westering sun
just out of sight behind the hill. Its rays from
AUTUMN. 297
those bare twigs across the pond are bread and
cheese to me. So many oak leaves have fallen
that the white birch stems are more distinct
amid the young oaks. I see to the bone, see
those bare birches prepared to stand the win
ter through on the hillsides. They never sing,
What 's this dull town to me ? The maples
skirting the meadows in dense phalanxes, look
like light infantry advanced for a swamp fight.
Ah, dear November, you must be sacred to the
?iine, surely. The willow catkins already peep
out one fourth of an inch. Early crowfoot is
reddened at Lee's.
JVov. 19, 1839.
Light-hearted, thoughtless, shall I take my way,
When I to thee this being have resigned,
Well knowing, on some future day,
With usurer's craft, more than myself to find.
Nov. 19 [?], 1857. I see where a mouse,
which had a hole under a stump, has eaten out
clean the inside of the little seeds of the Prinos
verticillata berries. What pretty fruit for them,
these bright berries ! They run up the twigs in
the night, and gather this shining fruit, take
out the small seeds, and eat these kernels at the
entrance to their burrows. The ground is
strewn with them there.
Nov. 20, 1850. Desor, who has been among
the Indians at Lake Superior this summer, told
298 AUTUMN.
*
me the other day that they had a particular
name for each species of tree, as of the maple,
but they had but one word for flowers. They
did not distinguish the species of the last.
It is often the unscientific man who discovers
the new species. It would be strange if it were
not so. But we are accustomed properly to call
that only a scientific discovery which knows the
relative value of the thing discovered, and un
covers a fact to mankind.
Nov. 20, 1851. It is often said that melody
can be heard farther than noise, and the finest
melody farther than the coarsest. I think there
is truth in this, and that accordingly those
strains of the piano which reach me here in my
attic stir me so much more than the sounds which
I should hear if I were below in the parlor, be
cause they are so much purer and diviner mel
ody. They who sit farthest off from the noisy
and bustling world are not at pains to distin
guish what is sweet and musical, for that alone
can reach them, that chiefly comes down to pos
terity.
Hard and steady and engrossing labor with
the hands, especially out of doors, is invaluable
to the literary man, and serves him directly.
Here I have been for six days surveying in the
woods, and yet when I get home at evening
somewhat weary at last, and beginning to feel
AUTUMN. 299
that I have nerves, I find myself more suscep
tible than usual to the finest influences, as music
and poetry. The very air can intoxicate me, or
the least sight or sound, as if my finer senses
had acquired an appetite by their fast.
Mr. J. Hosmer tells me that one spring he
saw a red squirrel gnaw the bark of a maple,
and then suck the juice, and this he repeated
many times.
Nov. 20, 1853. I once came near speculating
in cranberries. Being put to it to raise the
wind, and having occasion to go to New York,
to peddle some pencils which I had made, as I
passed through Boston I went to Quincy market
and inquired the price of cranberries. The
dealer took me down cellar, asked if I wanted
wet or dry, and showed me them. I gave it to
be understood that I might want an indefinite
quantity. It made a slight sensation among the
dealers, and for aught I know, raised the price
of the berry for a time. I then visited various
New York packets, and was told what would be
the freight on deck and in the hold, and one
skipper was very anxious for my freight. When
I got to New York, I again visited the markets
as a purchaser, and " the best of eastern cran
berries " were offered me by the barrel at a
cheaper rate than I could buy them in Boston.
I was obliged to manufacture $ 1,000 worth of
300 AUTUMN.
pencils, and slowly dispose of, and finally sacri
fice them, in order to pay an assumed debt of
1100.
What enhances my interest in dew (I am
thinking of summer) is the fact that it is so
distinct from rain, formed most abundantly after
bright, starlight nights, a product especially of
the clear, s*erene air, the manna of fair weather,
the upper side of rain, as the country above
the clouds. That nightly rain, called dew,
gathers and falls in so low a stratum that our
heads tower above it like mountains in an ordi
nary shower. It only consists with comparative
fair weather above our heads. Those warm
volumes of air forced high up the hillsides in
summer nights are driven thither to drop their
dew, like kine to their yards to be milked, that
the moisture they hold may be condensed, and
so dew formed before morning on the tops of
the Jiills. A writer in " Harper's Magazine," vol.
vii., p. 505, says that the mist at evening does
not rise, " but gradually forms higher up in the
air." He calls it, the moisture of the air become
visible, says there is most dew in clear nights
because clouds prevent the cooling down of the
air, they radiate the heat of the earth back to it,
and that a strong wind, by keeping the air in
motion, prevents its heat from passing off. He
says also that bad conductors of heat have al-
AUTUMN. 301
ways most dew on them, and that wool or swan's
down are " good for experimenting on the quan
tity of dew falling," weighed before and after ;
thinks it not safe to walk in clear nights, espe
cially after midnight when the dew is most abun
dantly forming, better in cloudy nights, which
are drier ; also thinks it not prudent to venture
out until the sun begins to rise, and warms the
air ; but I think this prudence begets a tender
ness that will catch more cold at noonday than
the opposite hardiness at midnight.
Nov. 21, 1853. Is not the dew but a humble,
gentler rain, the nightly rain, above which we
raise our heads, and unobstructedly behold the
stars? The mountains are giants which tower
above the rain, as we above the dew on the
grass. It only wets their feet.
Nov. 20, 1854. 7 A. M. To Boston. 9 A. M.
Boston to New York by express train. See the
reddish soil (red sandstone ?) all through Con
necticut. Beyond Hartford a range of rocky
hills crossing the State on each side the rail
road. The second one very precipitous, and ap
parently terminating at East Rock, New Haven.
Pleasantest part of the whole route between
Springfield and Hartford along the river, per
haps including the hilly region this side of
Springfield. Reached Canal Street at 5 P. M.,
or candle-light. Started for Philadelphia from
302 AUTUMN.
foot of Liberty Street at 6 p. M., by Newark,
Bordentown, and Camden Ferry, all in the dark ;
saw only the glossy paneling of the cars reflected
out into the dark like the magnificent lit facade
of a row of edifices reaching all the way to Phil
adelphia, except when we stopped, and a lantern
or two showed us a ragged boy and the dark
buildings of some New Jersey town. Arrived
at 10 P. M. Time, four hours from New York,
thirteen from Boston, fifteen from Concord.
Put up at Jones's Exchange Hotel, 77 Dock
Street. Lodgings, thirty-seven cents and a half
per night ; meals, separate. Not to be named
with French's in New York.
Nov. 21, 1854. Was admitted into the build
ing of the Academy of Natural Sciences. Its
collection of birds said to be the largest in the
world. They belonged to the son of Massena
(Prince of Essling?), and were sold at auction,
bought by a Yankee for $22,000, over all the
crowned heads of Europe, and presented to the
Academy. Other collections also are added to
this. The Academy has received great donations.
Furness described a lotus identical with an
Egyptian one, as found somewhere down the
river below Philadelphia.
Lodged at the United States Hotel, opposite
the Girard (formerly United States) bank.
Nov. 22, 1854. Left at 7.30 A. M., for New
AUTUMN. 303
York. Saw Greeley. He took me to the New
Opera House, where I heard Grisi and her
troupe. He appeared to know and be known
by everybody. Was admitted free to the opera,
and we were led by a page to various parts of
the house at different times.
Nov. 20, 1857. In books, that which is most
generally interesting is what comes home to the
most cherished private experience of the great
est number. It is not the book of him who has
traveled farthest on the surface of the globe,
but of him who has lived the deepest, and been
the most at home. If an equal emotion is ex
cited by a familiar homely phenomenon as by
the pyramids, there is no advantage in seeing
the pyramids. It is on the whole better, as it is
simpler, to use the common language. We re-
quy-e that the reporter be very firmly planted
before the facts which he observes, not a mere
passer-by, hence the facts cannot be too homely.
A man is worth most to himself and to others,
whether as an observer, or poet, or neighbor,
or friend, who is most contented and at home.
There his life is the most intense, and he loses
the fewest moments. Familiar and surrounding
objects are the best symbols and illustrations of
his life. If a man who has had deep experi
ences should endeavor to describe them in a
book of travels, it would be to use the language
304 AUTUMN.
of a wandering tribe instead of a universal lan
guage. The poet has made the best roots in his
native soil, and is the hardest to transplant.
The man who is often thinking that it would be
better to be somewhere else than where he is,
excommunicates himself. Here I have been
these forty years learning the language of these
fields that I may the better express myself. If
I should travel to the prairies, I should much
less understand them, and my past life would
serve me but ill to describe them. Many a
weed stands for more of life to me than the big
trees of California would if I should go there.
We need only travel enough to give our intel
lects an airing. In spite of Malthus and the
rest, there will be plenty of room in this world,
if every man will mind his own business. I
have not heard of any planet running agauist
another yet.
p. M. To Ministerial Swamp. Some bank-
swallows' nests are exposed by the caving of the
bank at Clamshell. The very smallest hole is
about two and a half inches wide horizontally,
and barely one high. All are much wider than
high. One nest, with an egg in it still, is com
pletely exposed. The cavity at the end is
shaped like a thick hoe-cake or lens, about six
inches wide and somewhat more than two thick
vertically. The nest is a regular but shallow
AUTUMN. 305
one, made simply of stubble, about five inches
in diameter and three quarters of an inch thick.
Returning, I see, methinks, two gentlemen
plowing a field as if to try an agricultural ex
periment. As it is very cold and windy, both
plowman and driver have their coats on. But
when I get nearer, I hear the driver speak in a
peculiarly sharp and petulant manner to the
plowman, as they are turning the furrow, and I
know at once that they belong to those two
races which are so slow to amalgamate. Thus
my little Idyl is disturbed.
In the large Wheeler field, Ranunculus bul-
bosus in full bloom.
The hardy tree sparrow has taken the place
of the chipping and song sparrow, so much like
the former that most do not know it is another.
His faint lisping chip will keep up our spirits
till another spring.
I observed this afternoon how some bullocks
had a little sportiveness forced upon them.
They were running down a steep declivity to
water, when, feeling themselves unusually im
pelled by gravity downward, they took the hint
even as boys do, flourished round gratuitously,
tossing their hind - quarters into the air, and
shaking their heads at each other ; but what in
creases the ludicrousness of it to me is the fact
that such capers are never accompanied by a
306 AUTUMN.
smile. Who does not believe that their step
is less elastic, their movement more awkward,
from their long domesticity ?
Nov. 20, 1855. Again I hear that sharp,
crackling, snapping sound, and hastening to the
window I find that another of the pitch-pine
cones, gathered November 7th, lying in the sun,
or which the sun has scorched, has separated its
scales very slightly at the apex. It is only dis
coverable on a close inspection, but while I look
the whole cone opens its scales with a smart
crackling, and rocks, and seems to bristle up,
scattering the dry pitch on the surface. They
all thus fairly loosen and open, though they do
not at once spread wide open. It is almost like
the disintegration of glass. As soon as the ten
sion is relaxed in one part, it is relaxed in every
part.
Nov. 20, 1858. P. M. To Ministerial Swamp.
[Martial Miles] says that a marsh hawk had
a nest in his meadow several years, and though
he shot the female three times, the male, with
but little delay, returned with a new mate. He
often watched these birds, and saw that the
female could tell when the male was coining, a
long way off. He thought the male fed her
and the young all together. She would utter a
scream when she perceived him, and rising into
the air (before or after the scream ?), she turned
AUTUMN. 307
over with her talons uppermost, while he passed
some three rods above, and caught without fail
the prey which he let drop, and then carried it
to her young. He had seen her do this many
times, and always without failing.
I go across the great Wheeler pasture. It is
a cool but pleasant November afternoon. The
glory of November is in its silvery, sparkling
lights, the air is so clear, and there are so many
bare, polished, bleached or hoary surfaces to re
flect the light. Few things are more exhilarat
ing, if it is only moderately cold, than to walk
over bare pastures, and see the abundant sheeny
light, like a universal halo, reflected from the
russet and bleached earth. The earth shines
perhaps more than in spring, for the reflecting
surfaces are less dimmed now. It is not a red,
but a white light. There are several kinds of
twigs, this year's shoots of shrubs, which have a
slight down, or haziness, hardly perceptible in
ordinary lights, though held in the hand, but
which seen toward the sun reflect a sheeny, sil
very light. Such are not only the sweet-fern,
but the hazel in a less degree, alder twigs, and
even the short huckleberry twigs, also lespedeza
stems. It is as if they were covered with a
myriad fine spicula3, which reflect a dazzling
white light exceedingly warming to the spirits
and imagination. This gives a character of
308 AUTUMN.
snug warmth and cheerfulness to the swamp, as
if it were a place where the sun consorted with
rabbits and partridges. Each individual hair
on every such shoot above the swamp is bathed
in glowing sunlight, and is directly conversant
with the day god.
As I returned over Conantum summit yester
day just before sunset, and was admiring the va
rious rich browns of the shrub-oak plain across
the river, which seemed to me more wholesome
and remarkable, as more permanent than the
late brilliant colors, I was surprised to see a
broad halo traveling with me, and always op
posite the sun to me, at least one fourth mile
off, and some three rods wide on the shrub oaks.
The rare, wholesome and permanent beauty of
withered oak leaves of various hues of brown,
mottling a hillside, especially seen when the sun
is low, Quaker colors, sober ornaments, beauty
that quite satisfies the eye, — the richness and
variety are the same as before, the colors differ
ent, more incorruptible and lasting.
Sprague of Cohasset states to the Natural
History Society Sept. 1, 1858, that the light
under the tail of the common glow-worm "re
mained for fifteen minutes after death."
Nov. 21, 1850. The witch hazel blossom on
Conantum has, for the most part, lost its ribbons
now.
AUTUMN. 309
I saw the sun falling on a distant white-pine
wood whose gray and moss-covered stems were
visible amid the green, in an angle where this
forest abutted of. a hill covered with shrub oaks.
It was like looking into dreamland. It is one
of the avenues to my future. Certain coinci
dences like this are accompanied by a certain
flash as of hazy lightning flooding all the world
suddenly with a tremulous, serene light which it
is difficult to see long at a time.
I saw Fair Haven Pond with its island, and a
strip of perfectly still and smooth water in the
lee of the island, and two hawks, fish-hawks, per
haps, sailing over it. I did not see how it could
be improved. Yet I do not see what these
things can be. I begin to see such an object
when I cease to understand it, and see that I did
not realize or appreciate it before, but I get no
further than this. How adapted these forms
and colors to my eye ! A meadow and an island !
What are these things ? Yet the hawks and the
ducks keep so aloof ! and nature is so reserved !
I am made to love the pond and the meadow, as
the wind is made to ripple the water.
Nov. 21, 1851. Better men than they hire to
come here never lecture. Why don't they ask
Edmund Hosmer or George Minott ? I would
rather hear them decline than most of these
hirelings lecture.
310 AUTUMN.
Nov. 21 [?], 1857. P. M. Up Assabet. Just
above the grape-hung birches, my attention was
drawn to a singular looking dry leaf or parcel
of leaves on the shore about a r^d off. Then I
thought it might be the dry and yellowed skele
ton of a bird with all its ribs ; then, the shell of
a turtle, or possibly some large dry oak leaves
peculiarly curled and cut ; and then all at once
I saw that it was a woodcock, perfectly still,
with its head drawn in, standing on its great
pink feet. I had apparently noticed only the
yellowish-brown portions of the plumage, refer
ring the dark-brown to the shore behind it. May
it not be that the yellowish-brown markings of
the bird correspond somewhat to its skeleton?
At any rate, with my eye steadily on it from a
point within a rod, I did not for a considerable
time suspect it to be a living creature. Exam
ining the shore after it had flown with a whis
tling flight, I saw that there was a clear shore of
mud between the water and the edge of ice crys
tals about two inches wide, melted so far by the
lapse of the water, and all along the edge of the
ice, for a rod or two at least, there was a hole
where it had thrust its bill down, probing every
half inch, frequently closer. Some animal life
must be collected at that depth just in that nar
row space, savory morsels for this bird. . . . The
chubby bird darted away zigzag, carrying its
AUTUMN. 311
long tongue-case carefully before it over the
witch hazel bushes. This is its walk, the portion
of the shore, the narrow strip still left open and
unfrozen between the water's edge and the ice.
Nov. 21, 1860. Another finger-cold evening,
which I improve in pulling my turnips, the usual
amusement of such weather, before they shall be
frozen in. It is worth while to see how green
and lusty they are yet, still adding to their stock
of nutriment for another year, and between the
green and also withering leaves it does me good
to see their great crimson round or scalloped tops
sometimes quite above ground, they are so bold.
They remind you of rosy cheeks in cold weather,
and indeed there is a relationship. Even pull
ing turnips when the first cold weather numbs
your fingers, like every other kind of harvestry,
is interesting, if you have been the sower, and
have not sown too many.
Nov. 22, 1851. At the brook [Saw Mill
Brook] the partridge berries checker the ground
with their leaves, now interspersed with red ber
ries. The cress at the bottom of the brook is
doubly beautiful now, because it is green while
most other plants are sere. It rises and falls
and waves with the current.
As I returned through Hosmer's field, the sun
was just setting beneath a black cloud by which
it had been obscured, and as it had been a cold
312 AUTUMN.
and windy afternoon, its light, which fell sud
denly on some white pines between me and it,
lighting them up like a shimmering fire, and
also on the oak leaves and chestnut stems, was
quite a circumstance. It was, from the contrast
between the dark and comfortless afternoon, and
this bright and cheerful light, almost fire. The
eastern hills and woods, too, were clothed in a
still golden light. It was a sort of Indian sum
mer in the day, which thus far has been denied
to the year. After a cold, gray day, this cheer
ing light almost warms us by its resemblance to
fire.
Nwo. 22, 1853. Geese went over yesterday
and to-day, also.
If there is any one with whom we have a
quarrel, it is most likely such a person makes
a demand on us which we disappoint.
I was just thinking it would be fine to get a
specimen leaf from each changing tree and shrub
and plant in autumn, in September and October,
when it had got its brightest, characteristic color,
intermediate in its transition from the green to
the russet or brown state, the color of its ripe
ness, outline it, and copy its color exactly with
paint in a book, a book which should be a me
morial of October, be entitled October Hues, or
Autumnal Tints. I remember especially the
beautiful yellow of the Populus grandidentata
AUTUMN. 313
%.
and the tints of the scarlet maple. What a
memento such a book would be, beginning with
the earliest reddening of the leaves, woodbine,
ivy, etc., and the lake of radical leaves, down to
the latest oaks. I might get the impression of
their veins and outlines in summer, and after,
color them.
Nov. 22, 1858. About the first of November,
a wild pig from the West, said to weigh three
hundred pounds, jumped out of a car at the
depot, and made for the woods. The owner had
to give up the chase at once not to lose his pas
sage, while some railroad employees pursued the
pig even to the woods one and a half miles off,
but there the pig turned and pursued them so
resolutely that they ran for their lives, and one
climbed a tree. The next day being Sunday,
they turned out in force with a gun and a large
mastiff, but still the pig had the best of it, fairly
frightened the men by his fierce charges, and the
dog was so wearied and injured by the pig that
the men were obliged to carry him in their arms.
The pig stood it better than the dog, ran between
the gun-man's legs, threw him over and hurt his
shoulder, though pierced in many places by a
pitchfork. At the last accounts, he had been
driven or baited into a barn in Lincoln, but no
one durst enter, and they were preparing to
shoot him. Such pork might be called venison.
314 AUTUMN. •
*
He was caught at last in a snare, and so con
veyed to Brighton.
Nov. 22, 1860. p. M. To northwest part of
Sudbury. The Linaria Canadensis [Wild
Toad-flax] is still freshly blooming. It is the
freshest flower I notice now. Considerable ice
lasting all day on the meadows and cold pools.
This is a very beautiful November day, a cool
but clear crystalline air, through which even the
white pines, with their silvery sheen, are an
affecting sight. It is a day to behold and to
ramble over the stiffening and withered surface
of the tawny earth. Every plant's down glistens
with a silvery light along the Marlboro' road,
the sweet fern, the lespedeza, and bare blue
berry twigs, to say nothing of the weather-worn
tufts of Andropogon scoparius. A thousand
bare twigs gleam like cobwebs in the sun. I re
joice in the bare, bleak, hard, and barren-looking
surface of the tawny pastures, the firm outline
of the hills, so convenient to walk over, and the
air so bracing and wholesome. Though you are
finger-cold toward night, and you cast a stone on
your first ice, and see the unmelted crystals under
every bank, it is glorious November weather.
You enjoy not only the bracing coolness, but all
the heat and sunlight there is, reflected back to
you from the earth. The sandy road itself lit
by the November sun is beautiful. Shrub oaks
.AUTUMN. 315
and young oaks generally, and hazel bushes, and
other hardy shrubs are your companions, as if it
were an iron age, yet in simplicity, innocence,
and strength, a golden one.
It is glorious to consider how independent man
is of all enervating luxuries, and the poorer he is
in respect to them, the richer he is. Summer is
gone with its infinite wealth, and still nature
is genial to man. Though he no longer bathes
in the stream, or reclines on the bank, or plucks
berries on the hills, still he beholds the same in
accessible beauty around him. What though he
has no juice of the grape stored up for him in
cellars, the air itself is wine of an older vin
tage, and far more sanely exhilarating than any
cellar affords. It is ever some gouty senior, and
not a blithe child that drinks or cares for that
so famous wine. Though so many phenomena
which we lately admired have now vanished,
others are more remarkable and interesting than
before. The smokes from distant chimneys, not
only greater because more fire is required, but
more distinct in the cooler atmosphere, are a
very pleasing sight, and conduct our thoughts
quickly to the roof and hearth and family be
neath, revealing the homes of men.
Maynard's yard and frontage, and all his
barns and fences are singularly neat and sub
stantial, and the high road is in effect converted
316 AUTUMN..
into a private way through his grounds. It sug
gests unspeakable peace and happiness. Yet,
strange to tell, I noticed that he had a tiger in
stead of a cock for a vane on his barn, and he
himself looked overworked. He had allured
the surviving forest trees to grow into ancestral
trees about his premises, and so attach them
selves to him as if he had planted them. The
dirty highway was so subdued that it seemed as
if it were lost there. He had all but stretched
a bar across it. Each traveler must have felt
some misgivings, as if he were trespassing.
However, the farmer's life expresses only such
content as an ox in his yard, chewing the cud.
What though your hands are numb with cold,
your sense of enjoyment is not benumbed. You
cannot even find an apple but it is sweet to taste.
Simply to see a distant horizon through a clear
air, the firm outline of a distant hill, or a blue
mountain-top through some new vista, this is
wealth enough for one afternoon. We journeyed
to the foreign land of Sudbury, to see how the
Sudbury men, the Hayneses and the Puffers and
the Brighams live ; we traversed their pastures
and their wood-lots, and were home again at
night.
Nov. 23, 1850. To-day it has been finger-cold.
Unexpectedly I found ice by the side of the
brooks this afternoon nearly an inch thick. The
AUTUMN. 317
difference in temperature of various localities is
greater than is supposed. If I was surprised to
find ice on the sides of the brooks, I was much
more surprised to find a pond in the woods, con
taining an acre or more, quite frozen over, so
that I walked across it. It was a cold corner
where a pine wood excluded the sun. In the
larger ponds and the river, of course there is no
ice yet. This is a shallow, reedy pond. I lay
down on the ice and looked through at the bot
tom. The plants appeared to grow more up
rightly than on the dry land, being sustained
and protected by the water. Caddis-worms were
everywhere crawling about in their handsome
quiver-like sheaths or cases.
I find it to be the height of wisdom not to
endeavor to oversee myself, and live a life of
prudence and common-sense, but to see over
and above myself, entertain sublime conjectures,
to make myself the thoroughfare of thrilling
thoughts, live all that can be lived. The man
who is dissatisfied with himself, what can he not
do?
Nov. 23, 1852. This morning the ground is
white with snow, and it still snows. This is the
first time it has been fairly white this season,
though once before, many weeks ago, it was
slightly whitened for ten or fifteen minutes.
Already the landscape impresses me with a
318 AUTUMN.
greater sense of fertility. There is something
genial even in the first snow, and Nature seems
to relent a little of her November harshness.
Men, too, are disposed to give thanks for the
bounties of the year all over the land, and the
sound of the mortar is heard in all houses, and
the odor of summer savory reaches even to poets'
garrets. This, then, may be considered the end
of the flower season for this year, though this
snow will probably soon melt again. Among
the flowers which may be put down as lasting
thus far, as I remember, in the order of their
hardiness, are yarrow, tansy, these very fresh
and common, cerastium [mouse-ear chickweed],
autumnal dandelion, dandelion, and perhaps tall
buttercup, the last four scarce. The following
seen within a fortnight : a late three - ribbed
golden-rod, blue-stemmed golden-rod (these two
perhaps within a week), Potentilla argentea,
Aster undulatus, Ranunculus repens, Bidens
connata, and Shepherd's purse. I have not
looked for witch hazel nor Stellaria media
[common chickweed] lately.
I had a thought in a dream last night, which
surprised me by its strangeness, as if it were
based on an experience in a previous state of
existence, and could not be entertained by my
waking self. Both the thought and the language
were equally novel to me, but I at once discov-
AUTUMN. 319
ered it to be true, and to coincide with my ex
perience in this state.
Nov. 23, 1853. 6 A. M. To Swamp Bridge
Brook mouth. The cocks are the only birds I
hear. But they are a host. They crow as
freshly and bravely as ever, while poets go down
stream, degenerate into science and prose.
By eight o'clock the misty clouds disperse,
and it turns out a pleasant, calm, and spring
like morning. The water, going down, but still
spread far over the meadows, is seen from the
window perfectly smooth and full of reflections.
What lifts and lightens and makes heaven of
earth is the fact that you see the reflection of
the humblest weed against the sky, but you can
not put your head low enough to see the sub
stance so. The reflection enchants us, just as
an echo does.
If I would preserve my relation to nature, I
must make my life more moral, more pure and
innocent. The problem is as precise and simple
as a mathematical one. I must not live loosely,
but more and more continently.
The Indian summer, said to be more remarka
ble in this country than elsewhere, no less than
the reblossoming of certain flowers, the peep of
the hylodes, and sometimes the faint warble of
some birds, is the reminiscence or rather the re
turn of spring, the year renewing its youth.
320 AUTUMN.
At 5 P. M. I saw flying southwest high over
head a flock of geese, and heard the faint honk
ing of one or two. They are in the usual harrow
form, twelve in the shorter line, and twenty-four
in the longer, the latter abutting on the former
at the fourth bird from the front. This is the
sixth flock I have seen or heard of since the
morning of the 17th, that is, within a week.
Nov. 23, 1860. Most of us are still related to
our native fields as the navigator to undiscovered
islands in the sea. We can any autumn dis
cover a new fruit there which will surprise us
by its beauty or sweetness. So long as I saw
one or two kinds of berries in my walks whose
names I did not know, the proportion of the
unknown seemed indefinitely, if not infinitely,
great. Famous fruits imported from the East
or South and sold in our markets, as oranges,
lemons, pineapples, and bananas, do not concern
me so much as many an unnoticed wild berry,
whose beauty annually lends a new charm to
some wild walk, or which I have found to be
palatable to an outdoor taste. The tropical
fruits are for those who dwell within the tropics.
Their fairest and sweetest parts cannot be ex
ported nor imported. Brought here, they chiefly
concern those whose walks are through the mar
ket-place. It is not those far-fetched fruits
which the speculator imports, that concern us
AUTUMN. 321
chiefly, but rather those which you have fetched
yourself from some far hill or swamp, journeying
all the long afternoon, in the hold of a basket,
consigned to your friends at home, the first of
the season. As some beautiful or palatable
fruit is perhaps the noblest gift of Nature to
man, so is a fruit with which one has in some
measure identified himself by cultivating or col
lecting it one of the most suitable presents to a
friend. It was some compensation for Commo
dore Porter, who may have introduced some
cannon-balls and bombshells into parts where
they were not wanted, to have introduced the
Valparaiso squash into the United States. I
think that this eclipses his military glory.
Nov. 24, 1850. Plucked a buttercup to-day.
I have certain friends whom I visit occasionally,
but I commonly part from them early, with a
certain bitter-sweet sentiment. That which we
love is so mixed and entangled with that we hate
in one another that we are more grieved and
disappointed, aye, and estranged from one an
other, by meeting than by absence. Some men
may be my acquaintances merely, but one whom
I have been accustomed to idealize, to have
dreams about as a friend, and mix up intimately
with myself, can never degenerate into an ac
quaintance. I must know him on that higher
ground, or not know him at all.
322 AUTUMN.
We do not confess and explain because we
would fain be so intimately related as to under
stand each other without speech. Our friend
must be broad. His must be an atmosphere co
extensive with the universe, in which we can
expand and breathe. For the most part, we are
smothered and stifled by one another. I go to
see my friend and try his atmosphere. If our
atmospheres do not mingle, if we repel each
other strongly, it is of no use to stay.
Nov. 24, 1851. Found on the south side of the
[Ministerial] swamp the Lygodium palmatum,
which Bigelow calls the only climbing fern in
our latitude.
Nov. 24, 1857. Some poets have said that
writing poetry was for youths only, but not so.
In that fervid and excitable season we only get
the impulse which is to carry us onward in our
future career. Ideals are exhibited to us then
distinctly which all our lives after we may aim
at, but not attain. The mere vision is little
compared with the steady, corresponding en
deavor thitherward. It would be vain for us to
be looking ever at promised lands toward which
we were not meanwhile steadily and earnestly
traveling, whether the way led over a mountain
top or through a dusky valley. In youth, when
we are most elastic, we merely receive an impulse
in the proper direction. To suppose this is
AUTUMN. 323
equivalent to having traveled the road, or obeyed
the impulse faithfully throughout a lifetime, is
absurd. We are shown fair scenes in order that
we may be tempted to inhabit them, and not
simply tell what we have seen.
Nov. 24, 1858. It is a lichen day, with a little
moist snow falling. The great green lungwort
lichen shows now on the oaks (strange that there
should be none on the pines close by), and the
fresh, bright chestnut fruit of other kinds, glis
tening with moisture, brings life and immortality
to light.
When I looked out this morning, the land
scape presented a very pretty wintry sight, little
snow as there was. Being very moist, it had
lodged on every twig, and every one had its
counterpart in a light, downy white one, twice
or thrice its own depth, resting on it.
Here is an author who contrasts love for " the
beauties of the person " with that for " excel
lences of the mind," as if these were the alterna
tives. I must say that it is for neither of these
that I should feel the strongest affection. I love
that one with whom I sympathize, be she " beau
tiful " or otherwise, of excellent mind or not.
Nov. 24, 1859. How pretty amid the downy
and cottony fruits of November the head of the
white anemone, raised a couple of feet from the
ground on slender stalks, two or three together,
824 AUTUMN.
— small heads of yellowish- white down compact
and regular as a thimble beneath, but, at this
time, diffusive and bursting forth above, some
what like a little torch with its flame.
Nov. 24, 1860. The first spitting of snow, a
flurry or squall, from out a gray or slate-colored
cloud that came up from the west. This con
sisted almost entirely of pellets an eighth of an
inch or less in diameter. They drove along al
most horizontally, or curving upward like the
outline of a breaker before the strong and chill
ing wind. The plowed fields were for a short
time whitened with them. The green moss
about the bases of trees was very prettily spotted
white with them, and also the large beds of
cladonia in the pastures. They come to con
trast with the red cockspur lichens on the stumps
which you had not noticed before. Striking
against the trunks of the trees on the west side,
they fell and accumulated in a white line at the
base. Though a slight touch, this was the first
wintry scene of the season. The air was so filled
with these snow pellets that we could not see
a hill half a mile off, for an hour. The hands
seek the warmth of the pockets, and fingers are
so benumbed that you cannot open your jack-
knife. The rabbits in the swamp enjoy it as
well as you. Me thinks the winter gives them
more liberty, like a night. I see where a boy
AUTUMN. 325
has set a box trap, and baited it with half an
apple, and, a mile off, come across a snare set for
a rabbit or partridge in a cowpath in a pitch-
pine wood, near where the rabbits have nibbled
the apples which strew the wet ground. How
pitiable that the most many see of a rabbit should
be the snare some boy has set for one !
The bitter-sweet of a white-oak acorn which
you nibble in a bleak November walk over the
tawny earth, is more to me than a slice of im
ported pineapple. We do not think much of
table fruits. They are especially for aldermen
and epicures. They do not feed the imagina
tion. That would starve on them. These wild
fruits, whether eaten or not, are a dessert for
the imagination.
Nov. 25, 1850. This afternoon, late and cold
as it is, has been a sort of Indian summer. In
deed, I think we have summer days from time
to time the winter through, and that it is often
the snow on the ground which makes the whole
difference. This afternoon the air was indescrib
ably clear and exhilarating, and though the ther
mometer would have shown it to be cold, I
thought there was a finer and purer warmth than
in summer, a wholesome, intellectual warmth in
which the body was warmed by the mind's con
tentment, — the warmth hardly sensuous, but
rather the satisfaction of existence.
326 AUTUMN.
The landscape looked singularly clean and
pure and dry, the air like a pure glass being laid
over the picture, the trees so tidy and stripped
of their leaves ; the meadow and pastures clothed
with clean, dry grass, looked as if they had been
swept ; ice on the water and winter in the air,
but yet not a particle of snow on the ground.
The woods, divested in great part of their
leaves, are being ventilated. It is the season
of perfect works, of hard, tough, ripe twigs, not
of tender buds and leaves. The leaves have
made their wood, and a myriad new withes
stand up all around, pointing to the sky, and
able to survive the cold. It is only the peren
nial that you see, the iron age of the year.
I saw a muskrat come out of a hole in the ice.
He is a man wilder than Ray or Melvin. While
I am looking at him, I am thinking what he is
thinking of me. He is a different sort of man,
that is all. Pie would dive when I went nearer,
then reappear again, and had kept open a place
five or six feet square, so that it had not frozen,
by swimming about in it. Then he would sit on
the edge of the ice, and busy himself about some
thing, I could not see whether it was a clam or
not. What a cold-blooded fellow ! thoughts at
a low temperature, sitting perfectly still so long
on ice covered with water, mumbling a cold,
wet clam in its sheD. What safe, low, moderate
AUTUMN. 327
thoughts he must have ! He does not get upon
stilts. The generation of muskrats do not fail.
They are not preserved by the legislature of
Massachusetts.
I experience such an interior comfort, far
removed from the sense of cold, as if the thin
atmosphere were rarefied by heat, were the
medium of invisible flames, as if the whole land
scape were one great hearthside, that where the
shrub-oak leaves rustle on the hillside, I seem
to hear a crackling fire and see the pure flames,
and I wonder that the dry leaves do not blaze
into yellow flames.
When I got up high on the side of the cliff,
the sun was setting like an Indian summer sun.
There was a purple tint in the horizon. It was
warm on the face of the rocks, and I could have
sat till the sun disappeared, to dream there. It
was a mild sunset such as is to be attended to.
Just as the sun shines on us warmly and se
renely, our creator breathes on us and re-creates
us.
Nov. 25, 1852. At Walden. I hear at sun
down what I mistake for the squawking of a
hen, for they are firing at chickens hereabouts,
but it proved to be a flock of wild geese going
south.
Nov. 25, 1853. Just after the sun set to
night, I observed the northern part of the
328 AUTUMN.
heavens was covered with fleecy clouds which
abruptly terminated in a straight line stretching
east and west directly over my head, the western
end being beautifully rose-tinted. Half an hour
later, this cloud had advanced southward, show
ing clear sky behind it in the north, until its
southern edge was seen at an angle of 45° by
me, but though its line was straight as before, it
now appeared regularly curved like a segment
of a melon rind, as usual.
Nov. 25, 1857. P. M. To Hubbard's Close,
and thence through woods to Goose Pond and
Pine Hill. A clear, cold, windy afternoon. The
cat crackles with electricity when you stroke
her, and the fur rises up to your touch. This
is November of the hardest kind, bare frozen
ground covered with pale brown or straw-colored
herbage, a strong, cold, cutting north wind which
makes me seek to cover my ears, a perfectly
clear and cloudless sky. The cattle in the fields
have a cold, shrunken, shaggy look, their hair
standing out every way, as if with electricity,
like the cat's. Ditches and pools are fast skim
ming over, and a few slate-colored snowbirds
with thick, shuffling twitter, and fine-chipping
tree sparrows flit from bush to bush in the other
wise deserted pastures. This month taxes a
walker's resources more than any other. For
my part, I should sooner think of going into
AUTUMN. 329
quarters in November than in winter. If you do
feel any fire at this season out of doors, you may
depend upon it, it is your own. It is but a short
time these afternoons before the night cometh in
which no man can walk. If you delay to start
till three o'clock, there will be hardly time left
for a long and rich adventure, to get fairly out
of town. November Eat-heart, is that the name
of it? Not only the fingers cease to do their
office, but there is often a benumbing of the
faculties generally. You can hardly screw up
your courage to take a walk when all is thus
tightly locked or frozen up, and so little is to be
seen in field or wood. I am inclined to take to
the swamps or woods as the warmest place, and
the former are still the openest. Nature has
herself become, like the few fruits she still
affords, a very thick-shelled nut with a shrunken
meat within. If I find anything to excite a
warming thought abroad, it is an agreeable dis
appointment, for I am obliged to go willfully
and against my inclination at first, the prospect
looks so barren, so many springs are frozen up,
not a flower, perchance, and few birds left, not
a companion abroad in all these fields for me.
I seem to anticipate a fruitless walk. I think
to myself hesitatingly, shall I go there, or there,
or there ? and cannot make up my mind to any
route, all seem so unpromising, mere surface-
330 AUTUMN.
walking and fronting the cold wind, so that I
have to force myself to it often, and at random.
But then I am often unexpectedly compensated,
and the thinnest yellow light of November is
more warming and exhilarating than any wine
they tell of. The mite which November con
tributes becomes equal in value to the bounty of
July. I may meet with something that interests
me, and immediately it is as warm as in July, as
if it were the south instead of the northwest
wind that blew.
I do not know if I am singular when I say
that I believe there is no man with whom I can
associate, who will not, comparatively speaking,
spoil my afternoon. That society or encounter
may at last yield a fruit which I am not aware
of, but I cannot help suspecting that I should
have spent those hours more profitably alone.
I notice a thimble-berry vine forming an arch
four feet high which has firmly rooted itself at
the small end.
The roar of the wind in the trees over my
head sounds as cold as the wind feels.
I shiver about awhile on Pine Hill, waiting
for the sun to set. The air appears to me
dusky now after four, these days. The land
scape looks darker than at any other season,
like arctic scenery. There is the sun a quarter
of an hour high, shining on it through a per-
AUTUMN. 331
fectly clear sky, but to my eye it is singularly
dark or dusky. And now the sun has disap
peared, there is hardly less light for half a min
ute. I should not know when it was down, but
by looking that way, as I stand at this height.
Returning I see a fox run across the road in
the twilight. He is on a canter, but I see the
whitish tip of his tail. I feel a certain respect
for him, because, though so large, he still main
tains himself free and wild in our midst, and is
so original, so far as any resemblance to our
race is concerned. Perhaps I like him better
than his tame cousin, the dog, for it.
It is surprising how much, from the habit
of regarding writing as an accomplishment, is
wasted on form. A very little information or
wit is mixed up with a great deal of convention
alism in the style of expressing it, as with a
sort of preponderating paste or vehicle. Some
life is not simply expressed, but a long-winded
speech is made, with an occasional attempt to
put a little life into it.
Nov. 25, 1858. While most keep close to
their parlor fires this cold and blustering
Thanksgiving afternoon, and think with com
passion of those who are abroad, I find the
sunny south side of the swamp as warm as is
their parlor, and warmer to my spirit. Aye,
there is a serenity and warmth here, which the
332 AUTUMN.
parlor does not suggest, enhanced by the sound
of the wind roaring on the northwest side of the
swamp a dozen or so rods off. What a whole
some and inspiring warmth is this !
Pass Tarbell's. The farmer, now on the
down-hill of life, at length gets his new barn
and barn cellar built, far away in some unfre
quented vale. This for twoscore years he has
struggled for. This is his poem done at last,
to get the means to dig that cavity and rear
those timbers aloft. How many millions have
done just like him, or failed to do it ! There is
so little originality, and just as little, and just as
much fate, so to call it, in literature. With
steady struggle, with alternate failure and suc
cess, he at length gets a barn cellar completed,
and then a tomb. You would think there was
a tariff on thinking and originality.
Nov. 25, 1860. Last night and to-day, very
cold and blustering. Winter weather has come
suddenly this year. The house was shaken by
wind last night, and there was a general defi
ciency of bed-clothes. This morning some win
dows were as handsomely decorated with frost
as ever in winter. I wear mittens or gloves,
and my greatcoat. There is much ice on the
meadows now, the broken edges shining in the
sun. Now for the phenomena of winter. As
I go up the meadow-side toward Clamshell I
AUTUMN. 333
see a very great collection of crows far and wide
on the meadows, evidently gathered by this cold
and blustering weather. Probably the moist
meadows where they feed are frozen up against
them. They flit before me in countless num
bers, flying very low on account of the strong
northwest wind that comes over the hill, and a
cold gleam is reflected from the back and wings
of each, as from a weather - stained shingle.
Some perch within three or four rods of me,
and seem weary. I see where they have been
pecking the apples of the meadow -side, — an
immense cohort of cawing crows which sudden
winter has driven near to the habitations of man.
When I return after sunset, I see them col
lecting, and hovering over and settling in the
dense pine woods, as if about to roost there. . . .
How is any scientific discovery made ? Why,
the discoverer takes it into his head first. He
must all but see it. ...
How often you make a man richer in spirit,
in proportion as you rob him of earthly luxuries
and comforts.
Nov. 26, 1837. I look around for thoughts,
when I am overflowing, myself. While I live
on, thought is still in embryo, it stirs not within
me. Anon it begins to assume shape and come
liness, and I deliver it, and clothe it in its gar
ment of language. But, alas ! how often when
334 AUTUMN.
thoughts choke me, do I resort to a spat on the
back, or swallow a crust, or do anything but ex
pectorate them.
Nov. 26, 1857. Minott's is a small, square,
one - storied, unpainted house, with a hipped
roof, and at least one dormer window, a third of
the way up the south side of a long hill, which
is some fifty feet high, and extends east and
west. A traveler of taste may go straight
through the village, without being detained a
moment by any dwelling, either the form or
surroundings being objectionable ; but very few
go by this house without being agreeably im
pressed, and therefore led to inquire who lives
in it. Not that its form is so incomparable, nor
even its weather-stained color, but chiefly, I
think, because of its snug and picturesque posi
tion on the hillside, fairly lodged there where
all children like to be, and its perfect harmony
with its surroundings and position. For if,
preserving this form and color, it should be
transplanted to the meadow below, nobody
would notice it, more than a schoolhouse which
was lately of the same form. It is there be
cause somebody was independent, bold enough to
carry out the happy thought of placing it high
on the hillside. It is the locality, not the archi
tecture, that takes us captive. There is exactly
such a site (only, of course, less open on either
AUTUMN. 335
side) between this house and the next westward,
but few, if any, even of the admiring travelers,
have thought of this as a house-lot, or would be
bold enough to place a cottage there. Without
side fences, or graveled walk, or flower-plots,
that simple sloping bank before it is pleasanter
than any front yard, though many a visitor,
and many times the master, has slipped and
fallen on the steep path. From its position and
exposure, it has shelter and warmth and dry-
ness and prospect. He overlooks the road, the
meadow and brook, and houses beyond, to the
distant Fair Haven. The spring comes earlier
to that door-yard than any other, and summer
lingers longest there.
Nov. 26, 1859. To the Colburn farm wood-
lot. The chickadee is the bird of the wood, the
most unfailing. When in a windy or in any
day you have penetrated some thick wood like
this, you are pretty sure to hear its cheery note.
At this season, it is almost its sole inhabitant.
I see to-day one brown creeper busily inspect"-
ing the pitch pines. It begins at the base, and
creeps rapidly upward by starts, adhering close
to the bark, and shifting a little from side to
side often till near the top, then suddenly darts
off downward to the base of another tree where
it repeats the same course. This has no black
cockade like the nuthatch.
336 AUTUMN.
Nov. 27, 1853. Now a man will eat Ms heart,
if ever, now while the earth is bare, barren, and
cheerless, and we have the coldness of winter
without the variety of ice and snow. Methinks
the variety and compensation are in the stars.
How bright they are now in contrast with the
dark earth !
JVov. 27, 1855. P. M. By river to J. Farm
er's. He gave me the head of a gray rabbit
which his boy had snared. This rabbit is
white beneath the whole length, reddish brown
on the sides, and the same spotted with black,
above ; the hairs coarse and homely, yet the fur
beneath thick and slate-colored, as usual ; well
defended from the cold ; sides, I might say,
pale-brick color, the brown part. The fur
under the feet dirty yellowish, as if stained by
what it trod upon.
Farmer said that his grandfather, who could
remember one hundred and twenty-five years
before this, told him that they used to catch
wolves in Carter's pasture by the North River,
east of Dodge's Brook, in this manner: they
piled up logs cob-house fashion, beginning with
a large base, eight or ten feet square, and nar
rowing successively each tier, so as to make
steps for the wolves to the top, say ten feet high.
Then they put a dead sheep within. A wolf
soon found it in the night, sat down outside, and
AUTUMN. 337
howled till he called his comrades to him, and
then they ascended step by step, and jumped
down within ; but when they had done eating,
they could not get out again. They always
found one of the wolves dead, and supposed he
was punished for betraying the others into this
trap. A man in Brighton, whom he fully be
lieves, told him that he built a bower near a
dead horse, and placed himself within, to shoot
crows. One crow took his station as sentinel
on the top of a tree, and thirty or forty alighted
upon the horse. He fired and killed seven or
eight. But the rest, instead of minding him,
immediately flew to their sentinel, and pecked
him to pieces before his eyes. Also Mr. Joseph
Clark told him that as he was going along the
road, he cast a stick over the wall and hit some
crows in a field, whereupon they flew directly at
their sentinel on an apple-tree and beat and
buffeted him away to the woods as far as he
could see.
Nov. 27, 1857. Standing before Stacy's large
glass windows, this morning, I saw that they
were gloriously ground by the frost. I never
saw such beautiful feather and fir like frosting.
His windows are filled with fancy articles and
toys for Christmas and New Year's presents,
but this delicate and graceful outside frosting
surpassed them all infinitely. I saw countless
338 AUTUMN.
feathers with very distinct midribs and fine
pinnae. The half of a trunk seemed to rise in
each case up along the sash, and these feathers
branched off from it all the way, sometimes nearly
horizontally. Other crystals looked like fine
plumes, of the natural size. If glass could be
ground to look like this, how glorious it would
be. You can tell which shopman has the hot
test fire within, by the frost being melted off.
I was never so struck by the gracefulness of the
curves in vegetation, and wonder that Kuskin
does not refer to frost work.
Nov. 27, 1859. The Greeks and Romans
made much of honey, because they had no
sugar ; olive oil also was very important. Our
poets (?) still sing of honey (though we have
sugar) and oil, though we do not produce and
scarcely use it.
Nov. 28, 1837. Every tree, fence, and spire
of grass that could raise its head above the snow
was this morning covered with a dense hoar
frost. The trees looked like airy creatures of
darkness caught napping. On this side, they
were huddled together, their gray hairs stream
ing, in a secluded valley, which the sun had not
yet penetrated, and on that they went hurrying
off in Indian file by hedgerows and water
courses, while the shrubs and grasses, like elves
and fairies of the night, sought to hide their
AUTUMN. 339
diminished heads in the snow. The branches
and taller grasses were covered with a wonder
ful ice-foliage answering leaf for leaf to their
summer dress. The centre, diverging, and even
more minute fibres, were perfectly distinct, and
the edges regularly indented. These leaves
were on the side of the twig or stubble opposite
to the sun (when it was not bent toward the
east), meeting it, for the most part, at right
angles, and there were others standing out at
all possible angles upon this, and upon one
another.
It struck me that these ghost leaves, and the
green ones whose form they assume, were crea
tures of the same law. It could not be in obe
dience to two several laws, that the vegetable
juices swelled gradually into the perfect leaf
on the one hand, and the crystalline particles
trooped to their standard in the same admirable
order on the other.
The river viewed from the bank above ap
peared of a yellowish green color, but on a
nearer approach, this phenomenon vanished,
and yet the landscape was covered with snow.
Nov. 28, 1853. Settled with J. Munroe &
Co., and on a new account placed twelve of my
books with him on sale. I have paid him di
rectly out of pocket, since the book was pub
lished, two hundred and ninety dollars, and taken
340 AUTUMN.
a receipt for it. This does not include postage,
proof-sheets, etc. I have received from other
quarters about fifteen dollars. This has been
the pecuniary value of the book.
Dr. Harris described to me his finding a
new species of cicindela [glow-worm] at the
White Mountains this fall, the same of which
he had found a specimen there some time ago,
supposed to be very rare, found at Peter's River
and Lake Superior ; but he proves it to be com
mon near the White Mountains.
Nov. 28, 1857. Spoke to Skinner about
that wild-cat which he says he heard a month
ago in Ebby Hubbard's woods. He was going
down to Walden in the evening (with a com
panion) to see if geese had not settled in it,
when they heard this sound, which his compan
ion, at first, thought made by a coon, but Skin
ner said it was a wild-cat. He says he has
heard them often in the Adirondack region,
where he has purchased furs. He told his com
panion he would hear it again soon, and he did,
somewhat like the domestic cat, a low sort of
growling, and then a sudden quick-repeated
caterwaul, or yow-yow-yow or yang-yang-yang.
He says they utter this from time to time when
on the track of some prey.
Nov. 28, 1858. A gray, overcast, still day,
and more small birds, tree sparrows and chicka-
AUTUMN. 341
dees, than usual about the house. There have
been a very few fine snowflakes falling for
many hours, and now, by 2 P. M., a regular snow
storm has commenced, fine flakes falling steadily,
and rapidly whitening all the landscape. In
half an hour the russet landscape is painted
white, even to the horizon. Do we know of any
other so silent and sudden a change ?
I cannot now walk without leaving a track
behind me. That is one peculiarity of winter
walking. Anybody may follow my trail. I
have walked, perhaps, a particular wild path
along some swamp side all summer, and thought
to myself, I am the only villager that ever
comes here. But I go out shortly after the
first snow has fallen, and lo, here is the track of
a sportsman and his dog in my secluded path,
and probably he preceded me in the summer as
well. But my hour is not his, and I may never
meet him.
Nov. 28, 1859. Saw Abel Brooks with a
half -bushel basket on his arm. He was picking
up chips on his and neighboring lots, had got
about two quarts of old and blackened pine
chips, and with these was returning home at
dusk more than a mile, — such a petty quan
tity as you would hardly have gone to the end
of your yard for, and yet he said he had got
more than two cords of them at home, which he
342 AUTUMN.
had collected thus, and sometimes with a wheel
barrow. He had thus spent an hour or two,
and walked two or three miles in a cool Novem
ber evening, to pick up two quarts of pine chips
scattered through the woods. He evidently
takes real satisfaction in collecting his fuel,
perhaps gets more heat of all kinds out of it
than any man in town. He is not reduced to
taking a walk for exercise, as some are. It is
one thing to own a wood -lot as he does who
perambulates its bounds almost daily, so as to
have worn a path about it, and another to own
one as many a person does, who hardly knows
where it is. Evidently the quantity of chips
in his basket is not essential. It is the chip
ping idea which he pursues. It is to him an
unaccountably pleasing occupation, and no doubt
he loves to see his pile grow at home. Think
how variously men spend the same hour in the
same village. The lawyer sits talking with his
client after twilight, the trader is weighing sugar
and salt, while Abel Brooks is hastening home
from the woods with his basket half full of chips.
I think I should prefer to be with Brooks. He
was literally as smiling as a basket of chips.
Nov. 29, 1839. Many brave men have there
been, thank fortune, but I shall never grow
brave by comparison. When I remember my
self, I shall forget them.
AUTUMN. 348
Cambridge, Nov. 29, 1841. One must fight
his way after a fashion, even in the most civil
and polite society. The most truly kind and
generous have to be won by a sort of valor, for
the seeds of suspicion as well as those of confi
dence lurk in every spadeful of earth. Officers
of respectable institutions turn the cold shoulder
to you, though they are known as genial and well-
disposed persons. They cannot imagine you to
be other than a ro^ue. It is that instinctive
principle which makes the cat show her talons,
when you take her by the paw. Certainly that
valor which can open the hearts of men is su
perior to that which can only open the gates of
cities. You must let people see that they serve
themselves more than you.
Nov. 29, 1850. Still misty, drizzling weather
without snow or ice. The pines standing in the
ocean of mist seen from the Cliffs are trees in
every stage of transition from the actual to the
imaginary. The near are more distant, the dis
tant more faint, till at last they are a mere
shadowy cone in the distance. You can com
mand only a circle of thirty or forty rods in
diameter. As you advance, the trees gradually
come out of the mist, and take form before your
eyes. You are reminded of your dreams. Life
looks like a dream. You are prepared to see
visions.
344 A UTUMN.
Nov. 29, 1853. p. M. To J. P. Brown's
Pond Hole. J. Hosmer showed me a pestle
which his son had found this summer, while
plowing on the plain between his house and
the river. It has a rude bird's head, a hawk's
or eagle's, the beak and eyes (the latter a mere
prominence) serving for a knob or handle. It
is affecting as a work of art by a people who
have left so few traces of themselves, a step
beyond the common arrow-head and pestle and
axe, something more fanciful, a step beyond
pure utility. As long as I find traces of works
of convenience merely, however much skill they
show, I am not so much affected as when I dis
cover works which evince the exercise of fancy
and taste, however rude. It is a great step to
find a pestle whose handle is ornamented with a
bird's-head knob. It brings the maker still
nearer to the races which so ornament their um
brellas and cane handles. I have then evidence
in stone that men lived here who had fancies to
be pleased, and in whom the first steps toward
a complete culture were taken. It implies so
many more thoughts such as I have. The arrow
head, too, suggests a bird, but a relation to it
not in the least godlike. But here an Indian
has patiently sat, and fashioned a stone in a
likeness of a bird, and added some pure beauty
to that pure utility, and so far has begun to
AUTUMN. 345
leave behind him war and even hunting, — to
redeem himself from the savage state. Enough
of this would have saved him from extermina
tion.
It has been cloudy and milder this afternoon,
but now I begin to see in the western horizon a
clear crescent of yellowish sky, and suddenly a
glorious yellow sunlight falls on all the eastern
landscape, russet fields and hillsides, evergreens
and rustling oaks, and single leafless trees. In
addition to the clearness of the air at this sea
son, the light is all from one side, and none
being absorbed or dissipated in the heavens, but
it being reflected both from the russet earth and
the clouds, it is intensely bright. All the limbs
of a maple seen far eastward rising over a hill are
wonderfully distinct and lit. I think we have
some such sunsets as this, and peculiar to the
season, every year. I should call it the russet
afterglow of the year. It may not be warm,
but must be clear and comparatively calm.
Nov. 29, 1857. P. M. To Assabet Bath, and
down bank. Again I am struck by the singu
larly wholesome colors of the withered oak
leaves, especially the shrub oak, so thick and firm
and unworn, without speck, clear reddish-brown,
sometimes paler or yellowish-brown, the whitish
under sides contrasting with the upper in a very
cheerful manner, as if the tree or shrub rejoiced
346 AUTUMN.
at the advent of winter. It exhibits the fashion
able colors of the winter on the two sides of its
leaves. It sets the fashions ; colors good for
bare ground or for snow, grateful to the eyes of
rabbits and partridges. This is the extent of its
gaudiness, red-brown and misty-white, and yet
it is gay. The colors of the brightest flowers
are not more agreeable to my eye. Then there
is the rich dark brown of the black oak, large
and somewhat curled leaf on sprouts, with its
light, almost yellowish-brown under side. Then
the salmonish hue of white-oak leaves, with the
under sides less distinctly lighter. Many, how
ever, have faded already.
Nov. 29, 1858. p. M. To HiU. About three
inches of snow fell last night. How light and
bright the day now ; methinks it is as good as a
half hour added to the day. White houses no
longer stand out and stare in the landscape.
The pine woods snowed up look more like the
bare oak woods with their gray boughs. The
river meadows show now far off a dull straw
color or pale brown amid the general white,
where the coarse sedge rises above the snow ;
and distant oak woods are now indistinctly red
dish. It is a clear and pleasant winter day.
The snow has taken all the November out of the
sky. Now, blue shadows and green rivers (both
which I see), and still winter life. I see par-
AUTUMN. 347
tridge and mice and fox tracks, and crows sit
silent on a bare oak top.
Nov. 29, 1859. To Copan. Saw quite a flock
of snow buntings, not yet very white. They rose
from the midst of a stubble field unexpectedly.
The moment they settled after wheeling around
they were perfectly concealed, though quite near.
I could only hear their rippling note from the
earth from time to time.
Nov. 29, 1860. If a man has spent all his
days about some business by which he has
merely got to be rich, as it is called, has got
much money, many houses and barns and wood-
lots, then his life has been a failure, I think.
But if he has been trying to better his condition
in a higher sense than this, has been trying to
be somebody, that is, to invest himself, and get a
patent for it, so that all may see his originality,
though he should never get above board (and
great inventors, you know, commonly die poor),
I shall think him comparatively successful.
You would think that some men had been
tempted to live in this world at all, only by the
offer of a bounty by the general government, a
bounty on living. I told such a man the other
day that I had got a Canada lynx here in Con
cord, and his instant question was, " Have you
got the reward for him ? " " What reward ? "
" Why, the ten dollars which the State offers."
348 AUTUMN.
As long as I saw him, he neither said nor
thought anything about the lynx, but only about
the reward. You might have inferred that ten
dollars was something rarer in his neighborhood
than a lynx even, and that he was anxious to
see it on that account. I had thought that a
lynx was a bright-eyed, four-legged, furry beast,
of the cat kind, very current indeed, though its
natural gait is by leaps. But he knew it to be
a draft drawn by the cashier of the Wild Cat
Bank on the State Treasury, payable at sight.
Then I reflected that the first currency was of
leather, or a whole creature (whence pecunia,
from ^jecws, a herd), and since leather was at
first furry, I easily understood the connection
between a lynx and ten dollars, and found that
all money was traceable right back to the Wild
Cat Bank. But the fact was that instead of
receiving ten dollars for the lynx, I had paid
away some dollars in order to get him, so you
see, I was away back in a gray antiquity, behind
the institution of money, further than history
goes. Yet though money can buy no fine fruit
whatever, and we are never made truly rich by
the possession of it, the value of things is com
monly estimated by the amount of money they
will fetch. A thing is not valuable, for example,
a fine situation for a house, until it is convertible
into so much money, that is, can cease to be what
AUTUMN. 349
it is and become something else which you prefer.
So you will see that all prosaic people who pos
sess only the common sense, who believe chiefly
in this kind of wealth, are speculators in fancy
stocks, and continually cheat themselves ; but
poets and all discerning people who have an ob
ject in life, and know what they want, speculate
in real values. The mean and low values of
anything depend on its convertibility into some
thing else, that is, have nothing to do with its
intrinsic value. The world and our life have
practically a similar value only to most. A
man has his price at the South, is worth so many
dollars, and so he has at the North. Many a
man has set out by saying, I will make so many
dollars by such a time, or before I die, and that
is his price, as much as if he were knocked off
for it by a Southern auctioneer.
Tuesday, Nov. 30, 1841. Cambridge. When
looking over the dry and dusty volumes of the
English poets, I cannot believe that those fresh
and fair creations I had imagined are contained
in them. English poetry, from Gower down,
collected into an alcove, and so from the library
window compared with the commonest nature,
seems very mean. Poetry cannot breathe in
the scholar's atmosphere. The Aubreys and
Hickeses, with all their learning, profane it yet
indirectly by their zeal. You need not envy
350 AUTUMN.
his feelings who for the first time had cornered
up poetry in an alcove. I can hardly be serious
with myself when I remember that I have come
to Cambridge after poetry. I think if it would
not be a shorter way to a complete volume to
step at once into the field or wood, with a very
low reverence to students and librarians. On
running over the titles of these books, looking
from time to time at their first pages or farther,
I am oppressed by an inevitable sadness. One
must have come into a library by an oriel win
dow as softly and undisturbed as the light which
falls on the books through the stained glass, and
not by the librarian's door, else all his dreams
will vanish. Can the Valhalla be warmed by
steam and go by clock and bell ?
Good poetry seems so simple and natural a
thing that when we meet it, we wonder that all
men are not always poets. Poetry is nothing
but healthy speech. Though more than any
other, the poet stands in the midst of nature, yet
more than any other can he stand aloof from her.
The best lines, perhaps, only suggest that this
man simply saw or heard or felt what seems the
commonest fact in my experience.
Nothing is so attractive and unceasingly curi
ous as character. There is no plant that needs
such tender treatment, there is none that will
endure so rough. It is the violet and the oak.
AUTUMN. 351
It is divine and related to the heavens, as the
earth is by the aurora. It has no acquaintance
and no companion. It goes silent and unob
served longer than any planet in space, but when
at length it does show itself, it seems like the
flowering of all the world, and its before unseen
orbit is lit up like the track of a meteor. I hear
no good news ever, but some trait of a noble
character. It reproaches me plaintively. I am
mean in contrast, but again am thrilled and ele
vated so that I can see my own meanness, and
again still, that my own aspiration is realized in
that other. You reach me, my friend, not by
your kind or wise words uttered to me here or
there ; but as you retreat, perhaps after .years
of vain familiarity, some gesture or unconscious
action in the distance speaks to me with more
emphasis than all those years. I am not con
cerned to know what eighth planet is wandering
in space up there, or when Venus or Orion rises,
but if in any cot east or west, and set behind
the woods, there is any planetary character
illuminating the earth.
Packed in my mind lie all the clothes
Which outward nature wears,
For, as its hourly fashions change,
It all things else repairs.
My eyes look inward, not without,
And I but hear myself,
352 AUTUMN.
And that new wealth which I have got
Is part of my own pelf.
For while I look for change abroad,
I can no difference find,
Till some new ray of peace uncalled
Illumes my inmost mind.
As when the sun streams through the wood
Upon a winter's morn,
Where'er his silent beams may stray,
The murky night is gone.
How could the patient pine have known
The morning breeze would come,
Or simple flower anticipate
The insect's noonday hum,
Till that new light, with morning cheer,
From far streamed through the aisles,
And nimbly told the forest trees
For many stretching miles ?
Nov. 30, 1851. Another cold and windy af
ternoon, with some snow, not yet melted, on the
ground. Under the south side of a hill between
Brown's and Tarbell's, in a warm nook, dis
turbed three large gray squirrels and some par
tridges, which had all sought out this bare and
warm place. While the squirrels hid themselves
in the treetops, I sat on an oak stump by an
old cellar hole, and mused. This squirrel is
always an unexpectedly large animal to see
frisking about. My eye wanders across the val
ley to the pine woods which fringe the opposite
AUTUMN. 353
side, and finds in their aspect something which
addresses itself to my nature. Methiiiks that in
my mood I was asking nature to give me a sign.
I do not know exactly what it was that attracted
my eye. I experienced a transient gladness, at
any rate, at something which I saw. I am sure
that my eye rested with pleasure on the white
pines now reflecting a silvery light, the infinite
stories of their boughs, tier above tier, a sort of
basaltic structure, a crumbling precipice of pine
horizontally stratified. Each pine is like a great
green feather stuck in the ground. A myriad
white-pine boughs extend themselves horizontally,
one above and behind another, each bearing its
burden of silvery sunlight, with darker seams
between them, as if it were a great crumbling
piny precipice thus stratified. On this my eyes
pastured while the squirrels were up the trees
behind me. That, at any rate, it was that I
got by my afternoon walk, a certain recognition
from the pine, some congratulation. Where is
my home? It is indistinct as an old cellar-hole
now, a faint indentation merely in a farmer's
field, which he has plowed into, rounding off its
edges, years ago, and I sit by the old site on
the stump of an oak which once grew there.
Such is nature where we have lived. Thick
birch groves stand here and there, dark brown
now, with white lines here and there. The Ly-
354 AUTUMN.
yodium palmatum [climbing fern] is quite
abundant on that side of the swamp, twining
round the golden-rods, etc.
Nov. 30, 1852. To Pine HiU. The buds of
the Populus tremuloides show their down as in
early spring, and the early willows. From Pine
Hill, Wachusett is seen over Walden. The
country seems to slope up from the west end of
Walden to the mountain. Already a little after
four o'clock, the sparkling windows and vanes of
the village seen under and against the faintly
purple -tinged, slate - colored mountains, remind
me of a village in a mountainous country at twi
light, where early lights appear. I think that
this sparkle without redness, a cold glitter, is
peculiar to this season.
Nov. 30, 1853. 8 A. M. To river to examine
roots. I ascertain this morning that the white
root with eyes, and slaty-tinged fibres, and sharp
leaves rolled up, found gnawed off and floating
about muskrat houses is the root of the great
yellow lily. The leaf-stalk is yellow, while that
of the white lily is a downy or mildewy blue-
black. The yellow-lily root is then, it would
seem, a principal item in the vegetable diet of
the muskrat. I find that those large triangular
or rhomboidal or shell-shaped eyes or shoulders
on this root are the bases of leaf-stalks which
have rotted off, but toward the upper end of the
AUTUMN. 355
root are still seen decaying. They are a sort of
abutment on which the leaf-stalk rested. The
fine black dots on them are the bases of the line
threads or fibres of the leaf-stalk, which in the
still living leaf-stalk are distinguished by their
purple color. These eyes, like the leaves, of
course, are arranged spirally across the roots in
parallel rows, in quincunx order, so that four
make a diamond figure.
Nov. 30, 1855. This evening I received
Cholmondeley's gift of Indian books, forty-four
volumes in all, which came by the Canada.
On the twenty-seventh, when I made my last
voyage for the season, I found a large round
pine log about four feet long, floating, and
brought it home. Off the larger end I sawed
two wheels about a foot in diameter, and seven
or eight inches thick, and I fitted to them an
axletree made of a joist which I also found in
the river. Thus I had a convenient pair of
wheels on which to get my boat up and roll it
about. I was pleased to get my boat in by this
means rather than on a borrowed wheelbarrow.
It was fit that the river should furnish the ma
terial, and that in my last voyage on it, when
the ice reminded me that it was time to put it
in winter quarters.
Nov. 30, 1856. Minott told me on Friday of
an oldish man and woman who had brought to a
356 AUTUMN.
muster here once a great leg of bacon boiled, to
turn a penny with. The skin, as thick as sole
leather, was flayed and turned back, displaying
the tempting flesh. A tall, raw-boned, omniv
orous heron of a Yankee came along and bar
gained with the woman, who was awaiting a
customer, for as much of that as he could eat.
He ate and ate and ate, making a surprising
hole, greatly to the amusement of the lookers-
on, till the woman in her despair, unfaithful to
her engagement, appealed to the police to drive
him off.
Minott Pratt tells me that he watched the
fringed gentian this year, and it lasted till the
first week in November.
Nov. 30, 1857. A still, warm, cloudy, rain-
threatening day. Surveying the J. Richardson
lot. The air is full of geese. I saw five flocks
within an hour, about 10 A. M., containing from
thirty io fifty each, afterward two more flocks,
making in all from two hundred and fifty to
three hundred, at least, all flying southwest over
Goose and Walden Ponds. You first hear a
faint honking from one or two in the northeast,
and think there are but few wandering there, but
look up and see forty or fifty coming on, in a
more or less broken harrow, wedging their way
southwest. I suspect they honk more, at any
rate they are more broken and alarmed, when
AUTUMN. 357
passing over a village, and are seen falling into
their ranks again, assuming the perfect harrow
form. Hearing only one or two honking, even
for the seventh time, you think there are but
few till you see them. According to my calcu
lation, ten or fifteen hundred may have gone
over Concord to-day. When they fly low and
near, they look very black against the sky.
Nov. 30, 1858. P. M. To Walden with C.,
and Fair Haven Hill. It is a pleasant day, and
the snow melting considerably. Though Wal
den is open, it is a perfect winter scene ; this
withdrawn, but ample recess in the woods, with
all that is necessary for a human residence, yet
never referred to by the London u Times " and
Galignani's " Messenger," as some of those arctic
bays are. Some are hastening to Europe, some
to the West Indies, but here is a bay never
steered for. These nameless bays, where the
" Times " and the " Tribune " have no corre
spondent, are the true bays of All Saints for me.
Green pines on this side, brown oaks on that,
the blue sky overhead, and the white counter
pane all around. It is an insignificant fraction
of the globe which England and Russia and the
filibusters have overrun. The open pond close
by, though considerably rippled to-day, affects
me as a peculiarly mild and genial object by
contrast with this frozen pool, and I sit down on
358 AUTUMN.
the shore in the sun, on the bare rocks. There
seems to be a milder air above it, as the water
within it is milder. Going west through Wheel
er's Owl wood toward Weird Dell, Well Meadow
Field, I beheld a peculiar winter scene, seen
many times before, but forgotten. The sun,
rather low, is seen through the wood with a cold,
dazzling, white lustre, like that of burnished tin,
reflected from the silvery needles of the pine.
No powerful light streams through, but you
stand in the quiet and somewhat sombre aisles
of a forest cathedral, where cold green masses
alternate with pale-brown, but warm, leather-
colored ones ; you are inclined to call them red,
reddish tawny, almost ruddy. These are the in
ternal decorations, while dark trunks streaked
with sunlight rise on all sides, and a pure white
floor stretches around, and perhaps a single
patch of yellow sunlight is seen on the white
shaded floor.
Did ever clouds flit and change, form and dis
solve so fast as in this clear cold air ? for it is
rapidly growing colder, and at such a time, with
a clear air, wind, and shifting clouds, I never
fail to see mother-o'-pearl tints abundant in
the sky.
Coming over the side of Fair Haven Hill at
sunset, we saw a long, large, dusky cloud in the
northwest horizon, apparently just this side of
AUTUMN. 359
Wachusett, or at least twenty miles off, which
was snowing, when all the rest was clear sky.
It was a complete snow cloud. It looked like
rain falling at an equal distance, except that the
snow fell less directly, and the upper outline of
a part of the cloud was more like that of a dusky
mist. It was not much of a snowstorm, just
enough to partially obscure the mountains about
which it was falling, while the cloud was appar
ently high above them, or it may have been a
little this side. The cloud was of a dun color,
and at its south end, where the sun was just
about to set, it was all aglow on its under side
with a salmon fulgor, making it look warmer
than a furnace, at the same time that it was
snowing. It was a rare and strange sight, that
of a snowstorm twenty miles off, on the verge
of a perfectly clear sky. Thus local is all storm,
surrounded by serenity and beauty. The terres
trial mountains were made ridiculous beneath
that stupendous range. The sun seen setting
through the snow-carpeted woods, with shimmer
ing pine needles, or dark green spruces, and
warm brown oak leaves for screens. With the
advent of snow and ice, so much cold white, the
browns are warmer to the eye. All the red that
is in oak leaves and huckleberry twigs comes
out.
I cannot but still see in my mind's eye those
360 AUTUMN.
little striped breams poised in Walden's glaucous
water. They balance all the rest of the world
in my estimation at present, for this is the bream
I have just found, and, for the time being, I
neglect all its brethren, and am ready to kill
the fatted calf on its account. For more than
two centuries have men fished here, and have
not distinguished this permanent settler of the
township. It is not like a new bird, a transient
visitor that may not be seen again for years, but
there it dwells and has dwelt permanently, who
can tell how long ? When my eyes first rested
on Walden, the striped bream was poised in it,
though I did not see it, and when Tahatawan
paddled his canoe there. How wild it makes
the pond and the township to find a new fish in
it. America renews her youth here. But in
my account of the bream, I cannot go a hair's
breadth beyond the mere statement that it exists,
the miracle of its existence. My contemporary
and neighbor, yet so different from me ! I can
only poise my thought there by its side, and try
to think like a bream for a moment. I can only
think of precious jewels, of music, poetry, beauty,
and the mystery of life. I only see the bream
in its orbit, as I see a star, but I care not to
measure its distance or weight. The bream
appreciated floats in the pond, as the centre of
the system, another image of God. Its life no
AUTUMN. 361
man can explain, more than he can his own. I
want you to perceive the mystery of the bream.
I have a contemporary in Walden. It has fins
where I have legs and arms. I have a friend
among the fishes, at least a new acquaintance.
Its character will interest me, I trust, and not its
clothes and anatomy. I do not want it to eat.
Acquaintance with it is to make my life more
rich and eventful. It is as if a poet or an an
chorite had moved into the town, whom I can
see from time to time, and think of yet oftener.
Though science may sometimes compare her
self to a child picking up pebbles on the sea
shore, that is a rare mood with her. Ordinarily
her practical belief is that it is only a few peb
bles which are not known, weighed and measured.
A new species of fish signifies hardly more than
a new name. See what is contributed in the
scientific reports. One counts the fin-rays, an
other measures the intestines, a third daguerreo
types a scale, etc. ; as if all but this were done,
and these were very rich and generous contribu
tions to science. Her votaries may be seen wan
dering along the shore of the ocean of Truth,
with their backs toward it, ready to seize on the
shells which are cast up. You would say that
the scientific bodies were terribly put to it for
objects and subjects. A dead specimen of an
animal, if it is only well preserved in alcohol, is
362 AUTUMN.
just as good for science as a living one preserved
in its native element. What is the amount of
my discovery to me ? It is not that I have got
one in a bottle, and that it has a name in a book,
but that I have a little fishy friend in the pond.
How was it when the youth first discovered
fishes ? Was it the number of their fin-rays or
other arrangement, or the place of the fish in
some system that made the boy dream of them ?
Is it these things that interest mankind in the
fish, the inhabitant of the water? No, but a
faint recognition of a living contemporary, a
provoking mystery. One boy thinks of fishes,
and goes a-fishing from the same motive that his
brother searches the poets for rare lines. It is
the poetry of fishes which is their chief use, their
flesh is their lowest use. The beauty of the fish,
that is what it is best worth while to measure.
Its place in our systems is of comparatively little
importance. Generally the boy loses some of
his perception and his interest in the fish, and
degenerates into a fisherman or an ichthyolo
gist.
Nov. 30, 1859. I am one of a committee of
four (Simon Brown, ex - Lieutenant - Governor,
R. W. Emerson, myself, and John Keyes, late
High Sheriff) instructed by a meeting of citi
zens to ask liberty from the selectmen to have
the bell of the first parish tolled at the time
AUTUMN. 363
Captain Brown is being hanged, and while we
shall be assembled in the Town House to express
our sympathy with him. I applied to the select
men yesterday. After various delays, they at
length answer me to-night that they " are uncer
tain whether they have any control over the bell,
but that, in any case, they will not give their
consent to have the bell tolled." Beside their
private objections, they are influenced by the
remarks of a few individuals ; said that he
had heard " five hundred " damn me for it, and
that he had no doubt, if it were done, some
counter demonstration would be made, such as
firing minute guns. A considerable part of
Concord are in the condition of Virginia to
day, afraid of their own shadows.
It is quite warm to-day, and as I go home on
the railroad causeway, I hear a hylodes peeping.
Dec. 1, 1850. I saw a little green hemi
sphere of moss which looked as if it covered a
stone, but, thrusting my cane into it, I found it
was nothing but moss about fifteen inches in
diameter, and eight or nine inches high. When
I broke it up, it appeared as if the annual
growth was marked by successive layers half an
inch deep, each. The lower ones were quite
rotten, but the present year's quite green, the
intermediate, white. I counted fifteen or eigh
teen. It was quite solid, and I saw that it con-
364 AUTUMN.
tinned solid as it grew by branching occasionally
just enough to fill the newly gained space, and
the tender extremities of each plant, crowded
close together, made the firm and compact sur
face of the bed. There was a darker line sep
arating the growths, where I thought the surface
had been exposed to the winter. It was quite
saturated with water, though firm and solid.
Dec. 1, 1852. To Cliffs. The snow keeps
off unusually. The landscape is of the color of
a russet apple, which has no golden cheek. The
sunset sky supplies that. But, though it is
crude to bite, it yields a pleasant acid flavor.
The year looks back to summer, and a summer
smile is reflected in her face. There is in these
days a coolness in the air which makes me hesi
tate to call them Indian summer. At this sea
son, I observe the form of the buds which are
prepared for spring, the large bright yellow and
reddish buds of the swamp pink, the already
downy ones of the Populus tremuloides and the
willows, the red ones of the blueberry, etc., also
the catkins of the alders and birches.
Dec. 1, 1853. Those trees and shrubs which
retain their withered leaves though the winter,
shrub oaks, and young white, red, and black
oaks, the lower branches of larger trees of the
last mentioned species, hornbeams, young hick
ories, etc., seem to form an intermediate class
AUTUMN. 365
between deciduous and evergreen trees. They
may almost be called the ever -reds. Their
leaves, which are falling all winter long, serve
as a shelter to rabbits and partridges, and other
winter birds and quadrupeds. Even the chicka
dees love to skulk amid them, and peep out from
behind them. I hear their faint, silvery, lisp
ing notes, like tinkling glass, and occasionally a
sprightly day-day-day ^ as they inquisitively hop
nearer and nearer to me. They are a most hon
est and innocent little bird, drawing yet nearer
to us as the winter advances, and deserve best
of all of the walker.
Dec. 1, 1856. P. M. By path around Wai-
den. With this little snow of the 29th ultimo
there is yet pretty good sledding, for it lies
solid. I see the pale-faced farmer out again on
his sled for the five thousandth time. Cyrus
Hubbard, a man of a certain New England
probity and worth, immortal and natural, like
a natural product, like the sweetness of a nut,
like the toughness of hickory. He, too, is a re
deemer for me. How superior actually to the
faith be professes ! He is not an office-seeker.
What an institution, what a revelation is a
man ! We are wont foolishly to think that the
creed a man professes is more significant than
the fact he is. It matters not how hard the
conditions seemed, how mean the world, for a
366 AUTUMN.
man is a prevalent force, and a new law him
self. He is system whose law is to be observed.
The old farmer condescends to countenance still
this nature and order of things. It is a great
encouragement that an honest man makes this
world his abode. He rides on the sled drawn
by oxen world-wise, yet comparatively so young,
as if they had seen scores of winters. The
farmer spoke to me, I can swear, clean, cold,
moderate, as the snow. He does not melt the
snow where he stands. Yet what a faint impres
sion that encounter may make on me after all !
Moderate, natural, true, as if he were made of
earth, stone, wood, snow. I thus meet in this
universe kindred of mine, composed of these ele
ments. I see men like frogs. Their peeping I
partially understand.
I go by Haden's and take S. Wheeler's wood-
path to railroad. Slate-colored snow-birds flit
before me in the path, feeding on the seeds, the
countless little brown seeds that begin to be
scattered over the snow, so much the more obvi
ous to bird and beast. A hundred kinds of in
digenous grain are harvested now, broadcast
upon the surface of the snow. Thus, at a criti
cal season, these seeds are shaken down on to
a clean, white napkin, unmixed with dirt and
rubbish, and off this the little pensioners pick
them. Their clean table is thus spread a few
AUTUMN. 367
inches or feet above the ground. . . . Will
wonder become extinct in me ? Shall I become
insensible as a fungus ?
A ridge of earth, with the red cock's -comb
lichen on it, peeps out still at the rut's edge.
The dear wholesome color of shrub-oak leaves,
so clean and firm, not decaying, but which have
put on a kind of immortality, not wrinkled and
thin like the white-oak leaves, but full-veined
and plump as nearer earth. Well-tanned leather
on the one side, sun -tanned, color of colors,
color of the cow and the deer, silver-downy be
neath, turned toward the late bleached and rus
set fields. What are acanthus leaves, and the
rest, to this ? Emblem of my winter condition.
I love and could embrace the shrub oak, with
its scanty garment of leaves rising above the
snow, lowly whispering to me, akin to winter
thoughts, and sunsets, to all virtue ; coverts
which the hare and the partridge seek, and I too
seek. What cousin of mine is the shrub oak?
Rigid as iron, clean as the atmosphere, hardy as
virtue,- innocent and sweet as a maiden, is the
shrub oak. In proportion as I know and love
it, I am natural and sound as a partridge. I
felt a positive yearning toward one bush this
afternoon. There was a match found for me at
last. I fell in love with a shrub oak. Tenacious
of its leaves which shrivel not, but retain a cer-
368 AUTUMN.
tain wintry life in them, firm shields painted in
fast colors, a rich brown. The deer-mouse, too,
knows the shrub oak, and has its hole in the
snow by the shrub oak's stem. Now, too, I re
mark in many places ridges and fields of fine
russet or straw-colored grass rising above the
snow, and beds of empty, straw-colored heads of
everlasting, and ragged looking Roman worm
wood. The blue curls' chalices stand empty,
and waiting evidently to be filled with ice. I
see great thimble-berry bushes rising above the
snow, with still a rich, rank bloom on them, as
in July, hypaethral mildew, elysian fungus ! To
see the bloom on the thimble-berry stem lasting
into midwinter I What a salve that would
make, collected and boxed.
No, I am a stranger in your towns. I am not
at home at French's or Lovejoy's, or Savery's.
I can winter more to my mind amid the shrub
oaks. I have made arrangements to stay with
them. The shrub oak, lowly, loving the earth,
and spreading over it, tough, thick-leaved, leaves
firm and sound in winter, rustling like leather
shields, leaves fair and wholesome to the eye,
clean and smooth to the touch. Tough to sup
port the snow, not broken down by it, well-nigh
useless to man, a sturdy phalanx, hard to break
down, product of New England soil, bearing
many striped acorns; well named shrub oak.
AUTUMN. 369
low, robust, hardy, indigenous, well-known to
the striped squirrel and the partridge and the
rabbit. The squirrels nibble its nuts, sitting
upon an old stump of its larger cousin. What
is Peruvian bark to your bark ! How many
rents I owe to you, how many eyes put out !
How many bleeding fingers I How many shrub-
oak patches I have been through, stooping,
winding my way, bending the twigs aside, guid
ing myself by the sun, over hills and valleys and
plains, resting in clear grassy spaces I
How can any man suffer long ? for a sense of
want is a prayer, and all prayers are answered.
Dec. 1, 1857. P. M. Walking in Ebby Hub-
bard's woods, I hear a red squirrel barking at
me amid the pine and oak tops, and now I
see him coursing from tree to tree. How se
curely he travels there fifty feet from the ground,
leaping from the slender, bending twig of one
tree across an interval of three or four feet, and
catching at the nearest twig of the next, which
so bends under him, that it is hard at first to
get up. His traveling is a succession of leaps
in the air at that height, without wings ! And
yet he gets along about as rapidly as on the
ground.
I hear the fainted possible quivet from a nut
hatch quite near me on a pine. I thus always
begin to hear the bird on the approach of winter,
370 AUTUMN.
as if it did not breed, but merely wintered, here.
[Added later.] Hear it all the fall, and occa
sionally through the summer of '59.
Dec. 2, 1839. A rare landscape immediately
suggests a suitable inhabitant, whose breath
shall be its wind, whose moods its seasons, and
to whom it will always be fair. To be chafed
and worried, and not as serene as nature, does
not become one whose nature is as steadfast as
she. We do all stand in the front ranks of the
battle every moment of our lives. Where there
is a brave man, there is the thickest of the fight,
there the post of honor. Not he who procures a
substitute to go to Florida is exempt from ser
vice. He gathers his laurels in another field.
Waterloo is not the only battle-ground. As
many and fatal guns are pointed at my breast
now, as are contained in the English arsenals.
Dec. 2, 1852. The pleasantest day of all.
Started in boat before 9 A. M., down river to
Billerica with W. E. C. Not wind enough for
a sail. I do not remember when I have taken a
sail or a row on the river in December before.
We had to break the ice about the boathouse
for some distance. Still no snow. The banks
are white with frost. The air is calm and the
water smooth. The distant sounds of cars,
cocks, hounds, etc., as we glide past N. Barrett's
farm remind me of spring. It is an anticipation,
AUTUMN. 371
a looking through winter to spring. There is a
certain resonance and elasticity in the air that
makes the least sound melodious as in spring.
The old unpainted houses under the trees look
as if winter had come and gone. A side of one
is painted as if with the pumpkin pies left over
after Thanksgiving, it is so singular a yellow.
The river has risen since the last rain a few
feet, and partially floods the meadow. See still
two ducks there. Hear the jay in distant copses,
and the Fringilla linaria flies and mews over.
Some parts of the meadow are covered with ice,
through which we row, which yet lasts all day.
The waves we make in the river nibble and
crumble its edge, and produce a rustling of the
grass and seeds, as if a muskrat were stirring.
We land behind Tarbell's, and walk inland.
How warm in the hollows ! The outline of the
hills is very agreeable there, ridgy hills with
backs to them. A perfect cowpath winds along
the side of one. These creatures have such weight
to carry that they select the easiest course. Again
embark. It is remarkably calm and warm in
the sun, now that we have brought a hill between
us and the wind. There goes a muskrat. He
leaves so long a ripple behind that in this light
you cannot tell where his body ends, and think
him longer than he is. This is a glorious river-
reach. At length we pass the bridge. Every-
372 AUTUMN.
where the muskrat houses line the shores, or what
was the shore, some three feet high, and regu
larly sharp, as the Peak of Teneriffe. C. says,
" Let us land ; 4 the angle of incidence should
be equal to the angle of reflection.' " We did
so. By the island where I formerly camped,
half a mile or more above the bridge on the road
from Chelmsford to Bedford, we saw a mink,
slender, black at ten rods distance (Emmonds
says they are a dark, glossy brown), very like a
weasel in form. He alternately ran along the
ice and swam in the water, now and then hold
ing up his head and long neck, and looking at
us, — not so shy as a muskrat ; I should say very
black. The muskrats would curl up into a ball
on the ice, decidedly reddish brown. The ice
made no show, being thin and dark. The mink's
head is larger in proportion to the body than
the muskrat's, not so sharp and rat-like. Left
our boat just above the last-named bridge on
west side. A bright, dazzling sheen for miles
on the river as you look up it. Crossed the
bridge, turned into a path on the left, and as
cended a hill a mile and a half off, between us
and Billerica, somewhat off from the river. The
Concord affords the water prospects of a larger
river, like the Connecticut even, hereabouts. I
found a spear-head by a mysterious little build
ing. On the west side of the river in Billerica
AUTUMN. 373
here is a grand range of hills, somewhat cliffy,
covered with young oaks, whose leaves now give
it a red appearance even when seen from Ball's
Hill. It is one of the most interesting and
novel features in the river scenery.
Men commonly talk as if genius were some
thing proper to an individual. I esteem it but
a common privilege, and if one does not enjoy it
now, he may congratulate his neighbor that he
does. There is no place for man-worship. We
understand very well a man's relation, not to his
genius, but to the genius.
Returning, the water is smoother and more
beautiful than before. The ripples we make
produce ribbed reflections or shadows on the
dense but leafless bushes on shore, thirty or
forty rods distant, very regular, and so far they
seem motionless and permanent. All the water
behind us, as we row, and even on the right and
left at a distance, is perfectly unruffled, we move
so fast, but before us down stream it is all in
commotion from shore to shore. There are
some fine shadows on those grand red oaken
hills in the north. When a muskrat comes to
the surface too near you, how quickly and with
what force he turns and plunges again, making
a sound in the calm water as if you had thrown
into it a large stone with violence. Long did it
take to sink the Carlisle bridge. The reflections
374 AUTUMN.
after sunset were distinct and glorious, the heaven
into which we unceasingly rowed. I thought
now that the angle of reflection was greater than
the angle of incidence. It grew cooler ; the
stars came out soon after we turned Ball's Hill,
and it became difficult to distinguish our course.
The boatman knows a river by reaches. Got
home in the dark, our feet and legs numb and
cold with sitting and inactivity, having been
about eight miles by river, etc. It was some
time before we recovered the full use of our
cramped legs. I forgot to speak of the after
glows. The twilight in fact had several stages,
and several times after it had grown dusky,
acquired a new transparency, and the trees on
the hillsides were lit up again.
Dec. 2, 1853. The skeleton, which at first
sight produces only a shudder in all mortals,
becomes at last, not only a pure, but a sugges
tive and pleasing object to science. The more
we know of it, the less we associate it with any
goblin of our imagination. The longer we keep
it, the less likely it is that any such will come
to claim it. We discover that the only spirit
which haunts it is a universal Intelligence which
has created it in harmony with all nature. Sci
ence never saw a ghost, nor does it look for any,
but it sees everywhere the traces, and is itself
the agent, of a Universal Intelligence.
AUTUMN. 375
Dec. 2, 1856. Saw Melvin's lank, bluish-
white, black-spotted hound, and Melvin with his
gun near by, going home at eve. He follows
hunting, praise be to him, as regularly in our
tame fields as the farmers follow farming ; per
sistent genius, how I respect and thank him for
it. I trust the Lord will provide us with an
other Melvin when he is gone. How good in
him to follow his own bent, and not continue at
the sabbath-school all his days ! What a wealth
he thus becomes to the neighborhood. Few
know how to take the census. I thank my stars
for Melvin, who is such a trial to his mother.
He is agreeable to me as a tinge of russet on
the hillside. I would fain give thanks morn
ing and evening for my blessings. Awkward,
gawky, loose-hung, dragging his legs after him,
he is my contemporary and neighbor. He is of
one tribe, I of another, and we are not at war.
How quickly men come on to the highways
with their sleds, and improve the first snow.
The farmer has begun to play with his sled as
early as any of the boys. I see him already
with mittens on and thick boots well-greased,
and fur cap, and red comforter about his throat,
though it is not yet cold, walking beside his
team with contented thoughts. This drama
every day in the streets ! This is the theatre I
go to. There he goes with his venture behind
him, and often he gets aboard for a change.
376 AUTUMN.
Dec. 2, 1857. I find that according to the
deed of Duncan Ingraham to John Richardson
in 1797, my old beanfield at Walden Pond then
belonged to George Minott. (C. Minott thinks
he bought it of an Allen.) This was Deacon
George Minott, who lived in the house next below
the East Quarter schoolhouse, and was a brother
of my grandfather-in-law. He was directly de
scended from Thomas Minott, who, according to
Shattuck, was secretary of the abbot of Wal
den (!) in Essex, and whose son George was
born at Saffron Walden (!) and was afterwards
one of the early settlers of Dorchester.
Dec. 3, 1853. p. M. Up river by boat to
Clamshell Hill. I see that muskrats have not
only erected cabins, but since the river rose
have in some places dug galleries a rod into the
bank, pushing the sand behind them into the
water. So they dig these now as places of retreat
merely, or for the same purpose as the cabins
apparently. One I explored this afternoon was
formed in a low shore at a spot where there were
weeds to make a cabin of, and was apparently
never completed, perhaps because the shore was
too low. Some of the clamshells, probably
opened by the muskrats, and left lying on their
half-sunken cabins where they are kept wet by
the waves, show very handsome rainbow tints.
... It is a somewhat saddening reflection that
AUTUMN. 377
the beautiful colors of this shell, for want of
light, cannot be said to exist, until its inhabitant
has fallen a prey to the spoiler, and it is thus
left a wreck upon the strand. Its beauty then
beams forth, and it remains a splendid cenotaph
to its departed tenant, suggesting what glory he
has gone to. Though fitted to be, it is not a gem
"of purest ray serene," so long as it remains
in " the dark, unfathomed caves of ocean," but
only when it is tossed up to light. It is as if
the occupant had not begun to live, until the
light, with whatever violence, is let into its shell
with these magical results. These shells beam
ing with the tints of the sky and the rainbow
commingled, suggest what pure serenity has oc
cupied them. There the clam dwells within a
little pearly heaven of its own.
Look at the trees, bare or rustling with sere
brown leaves, except the evergreens ; the buds
dormant at the foot of the leaf -stalks ; look at
the fields, russet and withered, and the various
sedges and weeds with dry, bleached culms : such
is our relation to nature at present, such plants
are we. We have no more sap, nor verdure,
nor color now. I remember how cheerful it has
been formerly to sit round a fire outdoors amid
the snow, and while I felt some cold, to feel
some warmth also, and see the fire gradually in
creasing and prevailing over damp steaming and
378 AUTUMN.
dripping logs, and making a warm hearth for
me. Even in winter we maintain a temperate
cheer, a serene inward life, not destitute of
warmth and melody.
Dec. 3, 1840. Music, in proportion as it is
pure, is distant. The strains I now hear seem
at an inconceivable distance, yet remotely within
me. Remoteness throws all sound into my in
most being, and it becomes music, as the slum
brous sounds of the village, or the tinkling of
the forge from across the water or the fields.
To the senses, that is farthest from me which
addresses the greatest depth within me.
Dec. 3, 1856. Mizzles and rains all day,
making sloshy walking, which sends us all to
the shoemaker's. Bought me a pair of cowhide
boots to be prepared for winter walks. The
shoemaker praised them, because they were made
a year ago. I feel like an armed man now.
The man who has bought his boots feels like
him who has got in his winter's wood. There
they stand beside me in the chamber, expec
tant, dreaming of far woods and wood paths,
of frost-bound or sloshy roads, or of being
bound with skate-straps and clogged with ice-
dust.
For years my appetite was so strong that I
browsed on the pine forest's edge seen against
the winter horizon. How cheap my diet still !
AUTUMN. 379
Dry sand that has fallen in the railroad cuts,
and slid on the snow beneath, is a condiment to
my walk. I ranged about like a gray moose
looking at the spiring tops of the trees, and fed
my imagination on them, — far away, ideal trees,
not disturbed by the axe of the wood -cutter.
Where was the sap, the fruit, the value of the
forest for me but in that line where it was
relieved against the sky ! That was my wood-
lot ; the silvery needles of the pine straining the
light.
A man killed at the fatal Lincoln Bridge died
in the village the other night. The only words
he uttered while he lingered in his delirium were
" All right," probably the last he uttered when
he was struck. Brave, prophetic words to go
out of the world with ! Good as " I still live."
How I love the simple, reserved countrymen,
my neighbors, who mind their own business and
let me alone, who never waylaid nor shot at me,
to my knowledge, when I crossed their fields,
though each one has a gun in his house. For
nearly twoscore years, I have known at a dis
tance these long-suffering men, whom I never
spoke to, who never spoke to me, and now I feel
a certain tenderness for them, as if this long
probation were but the prelude to an eternal
friendship. What a long trial we have with
stood, and how much more admirable we are to
380 AUTUMN.
each other, perchance, than if we had been bed
fellows. I am not only grateful because Homer,
and Christ, and Shakespeare have lived, but I
am grateful for Minott, and Rice, and Melvin,
and Goodwin, and Puffer even. I see Melvin
all alone filling his sphere in russet suit, which
no other would fill or suggest. He takes up as
much room in nature as the most famous.
Six weeks ago I noticed the advent of chicka
dees, and their winter habits. As you walk
along a woodside, a restless little flock of them,
whose notes you hear at a distance, will seem to
say, " Oh, there he goes, let 's pay our respects to
him ! " and they will flit after and close to you,
and naively peck at the nearest twig to you, as
if they were minding their own business all the
while, without any reference to you.
Dec. 3, 1857. Surveying the Richardson lot
which bounds on Walden Pond, I turned up a
rock near the pond to make a bound with, and
found under it and attached to it, a collection of
black ants (say one fourth of an inch long), and
an inch in diameter, collected around one mon
ster black ant, as big as four or five at least,
and a small parcel of yellowish eggs (?). The
large ant had no wings, and was probably the
queen. The ants were quite lively, though but
little way under the rock. The eggs (?) ad
hered to the rock, when turned up.
AUTUMN. 381
Dec. 3, 1858. I improve every opportunity
to go into a grist-mill, any excuse to see its
cobweb tapestry. I put questions to the miller,
as an excuse for staying, while my eye rests
delighted on the cobwebs above his head, and
perchance on his hat.
Dec. 3, 1859. Suddenly quite cold, and
freezes in the house. Rode with a man this
morning, who said that if he did not clean his
teeth when he got up, it made him sick all the
rest of the day, but he had found, by late expe
rience, that when he had not cleaned his teeth
for several days, they cleaned themselves. I as
sured him that such was the general rule, that
when, from any cause, we were prevented from
doing what we had commonly thought indispens
able for us to do, things cleaned or took care
of themselves.
was betrayed by his eyes, which had a
glaring film over them, and no serene depth into
which you could look. Inquired particularly
the way to Emerson's, and the distance, and
when I told him, said he knew it as well as if
he saw it. Wished to turn and proceed to his
house. Said, " I know I am insane," and I
knew it too. He also called it " nervous excite
ment." At length when I made a certain re
mark, he said, " I don't know but you are
Emerson ; are you ? you look somewhat like
382 AUTUMN.
him." He said as much, two or three times,
and added once, " but then Emerson would not
lie." Finally put his questions to me, of Fate,
etc., as if I were Emerson. Getting to the
woods, I remarked upon them, and he men
tioned my name, but never to the end suspected
who his companion was. Then proceeded to
business, " since the time was short," and put to
me the questions he was going to put to Emer
son. His insanity exhibited itself chiefly by his
incessant excited talk, scarcely allowing me to
interrupt him, but once or twice apologizing for
his behavior. What he said was for the most
part connected and sensible enough.
When I hear of John Brown and his wife
weeping at length, it is as if the rocks sweated.
Dec. 3, 1860. Talking with and -
to-day, they declared that John Brown did
wrong. When I said that I thought he was
right, they agreed in asserting that he did
wrong because he threw his life away, and that
no man had a right to undertake anything which
he knew would cost him his life. I inquired if
Christ did not foresee that he would be crucified,
if he preached such doctrines as he did, but they
both (though as if it were their only escape) as
serted that they did not believe he did. Upon
which a third party threw in, " You do not
think he had as much foresight as Brown." Of
AUTUMN. 383
course, they as good as said that if Christ had
foreseen that he would be crucified, he would
have "backed out." Such are the principles
and the logic of the mass of men.
It is to be remembered that by good deeds or
words you encourage yourself, who always have
need to witness or hear them.
Dec. 4, 1840. I seem to have experienced a
joy sometimes like that with which yonder tree
for so long has budded and blossomed, and re
flected the green rays. The opposite shore of
the pond, seen through the haze of a September
afternoon, as it lies stretched out in gray con
tent, answers to some streak in me.
Dec. 4, 1856. I notice that the swallow-
holes in the bank behind Dennis's, which is
partly washed away, are flat - elliptical, three
times or more as wide horizontally as they are
deep vertically, or about three inches by one.
Saw and heard cheep faintly one little tree
sparrow, the neat, chestnut-crowned and winged,
and white -barred bird, so clean and tough,
made to withstand the winter. This color re
minds one of the upper side of the shrub-oak
leaf. The Frinyilla hiemalis also. I love the
few homely colors of Nature at this season, her
strong, wholesome browns, her sober and pri
meval grays, her celestial blue, her vivacious
green, her pure cold snowy white. Thus Nature
384 AUTUMN.
feeds her children cheaply with color. I have
no doubt that it is an important relief to the
eyes which have long rested on snow, to rest on
brown oak leaves and the bark of trees. We
want the greatest variety within the smallest
compass, and yet without glaring diversity, and
we have it in the colors of the withered oak
leaves ; the white, so curled, shriveled, and pale ;
the black (?), more flat and glossy, and darker
brown ; the red, much like the black, but, per
haps, less dark and less deeply cut. The scar
let still occasionally retains some blood in its
veins.
Smooth white reaches of ice, as long as the
river on each side, are threatening to bridge
over its dark-blue artery, any night. They
remind me of a trap set for it, which the frost
will spring. Each day, at present, the wrig
gling river nibbles off the edges of the trap
which have advanced in the night. It is a
close contest between day and night.
Already you see the tracks of sleds leading
by unusual routes, where will be seen no trace
of them in summer, into far fields and woods,
crowding aside and pressing down the snow,
to where some heavy log or stone has thought
itself secure, and the spreading tracks, also, of
the heavy, slow-paced oxen, and the well-shod
farmer who turns out his feet. Erelong, when
AUTUMN. 385
the cold is stronger, these tracks will lead the
walker deep into remote swamps impassable in
summer. All the earth is a highway then.
Sophia says that just before I came home,
Min caught a mouse, and was playing with it
in the yard. It had got away from her once or
twice and she had caught it again, and now it
was stealing off again, as she was complacently
watching it with her paws tucked under her,
when her friend, Riorden's stout cock, stepped
up inquisitively, looked down at it with one eye,
turning its head, then picked it up by the tail,
gave it two or three whacks on the ground, and
giving it a dexterous toss in the air, caught it
in its open mouth, and it went, head foremost
and alive, down its capacious throat in the
twinkling of an eye, never again to be seen in
this world ; Min all the while, with paws com
fortably tucked under her, looking on uncon
cerned. What matters it one mouse, more or
less, to her ? The cock walked off amid the cur
rant-bushes, stretched his neck up and gulped
once or twice, and the deed was accomplished.
Then he crowed lustily in celebration of the ex
ploit. It might be set down among the Gesta
yallorum. There were several human witnesses.
It is a question whether Min ever understood
where that mouse went to. She sits composedly
sentinel, with paws tucked under her, a good
386 AUTUMN.
part of her days at present, by some ridiculous
little hole, the possible entry of a mouse.
He who abstains from visiting another for
magnanimous reasons, enjoys better society
alone.
My first botany, as I remember, was " Bige-
low's Plants of Boston and Vicinity," which I
began to use about twenty years ago, looking
chiefly for the popular names, and the short refer
ences to the localities of plants, even without any
regard to the plant. I also learned the names
of many, but without using any system, and
forgot them soon. I was not inclined to pluck
flowers, but preferred to leave them where they
were, and liked them best there. I was never
in the least interested in plants in the house.
But from time to time we look at nature with
new eyes. About half a dozen years ago, I
found myself again attending to plants with
more method, looking out the name of each one,
and remembering it. I began to bring them
home in my hat, a straw one with a scaffold
lining to it, which I called my botany box. I
never used any other, and when some whom I
visited were evidently surprised at its dilapi
dated look, as I deposited it on their front entry
table, I assured them it was not so much my
hat, as my botany box. I remember gazing
with interest at the swamps about those days,
AUTUMN. 387
and wondering if I could ever attain to such
familiarity with plants that I should know
the species of every twig and leaf in them,
should be acquainted with every plant (except
grasses and cryptogamous ones), summer and
winter, that I saw. Though I knew most of the
flowers, and there were not in any particular
swamp more than half a dozen shrubs that I
did not know, yet these made it seem like a
maze of a thousand strange species, and I even
thought of commencing at one end, and look
ing it faithfully and laboriously through, till I
knew it all. I little thought that in a year or
two I should have attained to that knowledge
without all that labor. Still, I never studied
botany, and do not to-day, systematically, the
most natural system is still so artificial. I
wanted to know my neighbors, if possible, to get
a little nearer to them. I soon found myself
observing when plants first blossomed and
leaved, and I followed it up early and late, far
and near, several years in succession, running
to different sides of the town and into neighbor
ing towns, often between twenty and thirty
miles in a day. I often visited a particular
plant four or five miles distant half a dozen
times within a fortnight, that I might know
exactly when it opened, besides attending at the
same time to a great many others in different
388 AUTUMN.
directions, and some of them equally distant.
At the same time I had an eye for birds and
whatever else might offer.
Dec. 4, 1859. Awake to winter, and snow
two or three inches deep, the first of any conse
quence.
Dec. 5, 1853. P. M. Got my boat in. The
river frozen over thinly in most places, and
whitened with snow which was sprinkled on it
this noon.
4 p. M. To Cliffs. Now for short days and
early twilight, in which I hear the sound of
wood-chopping. The sun goes down behind a
low cloud, and the world is darkened. The
partridge is budding on the apple-tree, and
bursts away from the pathside. Before I got
home, the whole atmosphere was suddenly filled
with a mellow, yellowish light equally diffused,
so that it seemed much lighter around me than
immediately after the sun sank behind the hori
zon-cloud fifteen minutes before. Apparently
not till the sun had sunk thus far, did I stand in
the angle of reflection.
Dec. 5, 1856. P. M. As I walk along the
side of the hill, a pair of nuthatches flit by
toward a walnut tree, flying low in mid course,
and then ascending to the tree. I hear one's
faint tut-tut or quaJi-quah (no doubt heard a
good way off by its mate, now flown to the next
AUTUMN. 389
tree), as it is ascending the trunk or branch of
a walnut in a zigzag manner, wriggling along,
prying into the crevices of the bark ; and now
it has found a savory morsel which it pauses
to devour, then flits to a new bough. It is a
chubby bird, white, slate-color, and black.
It is a perfectly cloudless and simple winter
sky. A white moon half full in the pale or dull-
blue heaven, and a whiteness like the reflection
of the snow extending up from the horizon all
around, a quarter of the way up to the zenith.
I can imagine that I see it shooting up like
an aurora now at 4 p. M. About the sun it
is only whiter than elsewhere, or there is only
the faintest possible tinge of yellow there.
My themes shall not be far-fetched. I will
tell of homely, every-day phenomena and adven
tures. Friends, society ! It seems to me that
I have an abundance, there is so much that I re
joice in and sympathize with, and men, too, that
I never speak to, but only know and think of.
What you call bareness and poverty is to me
simplicity. God could not be unkind to me, if
he should try. I love the winter with its im
prisonment and its cold, for it compels the pris
oner to try new fields and resources. I love to
have the river closed up for a season, and a pause
put to my boating, to be obliged to get my boat
in. I shall launch it again in the spring with
390 AUTUMN.
so much more pleasure. This is an advantage
in point of abstinence and moderation compared
with the seaside boating, where the boat ever lies
on the shore. I love best to have each thing in
its season only, and enjoy doing without it at all
other times. It is the greatest of all advantages
to enjoy no advantage at all. I find it invari
ably true, the poorer I am, the richer I am.
What you consider my disadvantage, I consider
my advantage ; while you are pleased to get
knowledge and culture, I am delighted to think
I am getting rid of them. I have never got over
my surprise that I should have been born into
the most estimable place in all the world, and in
the very nick of time, too.
Dec. 5, 1858. How singularly ornamented is
that salamander. Its brightest side, its yellow
belly, sprinkled with fine dark spots, is turned
downwards. Its back is indeed ornamented
with two rows of bright vermilion spots, but
they can only be detected on the very closest
inspection, and poor eyes fail to discover them
even then, as I have found.
Dec. 6, 1854. To Providence to lecture.
After lecturing twice this winter, I feel that I
am in danger of cheapening myself by trying to
become a successful lecturer, that is, to interest
my audiences. I am disappointed to find that
most that I am, and value myself for, is lost, or
AUTUMN. 391
worse than lost, on my audience. I fail to get
even the attention of the mass. I should suit
them better if I suited myself less. You cannot
interest them except as you are like them, and
sympathize with them. I would rather that my
audience should come to me, than I go to them ;
that so they should be sifted ; that is, I would
rather write books than lectures. To read to a
promiscuous audience, who are at your mercy,
the fine thoughts you solaced yourself with, far
away, is as violent as to fatten geese by cram
ming, and in this case they do not get fatter.
Dec. 6, 1856. 2 p. M. To Hubbard's Bridge
and Holden Swamp, and up river on ice to Fair
Haven pond crossing, just below pond ; back on
east side of river. Skating is fairly begun. I
can walk through the spruce swamp now dry-
shod amid the water andromeda and Kalmia
glauca. How handsome every one of these
leaves that are blown about over the snow crust,
or lie neglected beneath, soon to turn to mould !
Not merely a matted mass of fibres like a sheet
of paper, but a perfect organism and system in
itself, so that no mortal has ever yet discerned
or explored its beauty. Over against this swamp,
I take to the river-side where the ice will bear.
White snow-ice it is, but pretty smooth. It is
quite glare close to the shore, and wherever the
water overflowed yesterday. Just this side of
392 AUTUMN.
Bittern Cliff, I see the very remarkable track of
an otter, made undoubtedly December 3d, when
the snow-ice was mere slush. It had come up
through a hole (now black ice) by the stem of
a button-bush, and apparently pushed its way
through the slush, as through snow 011 land,
leaving a track eight inches wide, more or less,
with the now frozen snow shoved up two inches
above the general level on each side. Where
the ice was firmer were seen only the track of
its feet. At Bittern Cliff I saw where these
creatures had been playing, sliding or fishing,
apparently to-day, on the snow-covered rocks, on
which for a rod upwards and as much in width,
the snow was trodden and worn quite smooth, as
if twenty had trodden and slid there for several
hours. Their droppings are a mass of fishes'
scales and bones, loose, scaly, black masses. At
this point, the black ice approached within three
or four feet of the rock, and there was an open
space just there a foot or two across, which
appeared to have been kept open by them. I
continued along on that side, and crossed on
white ice just below the pond. The river was
all tracked up with otters from Bittern Cliff
upward. Sometimes one had trailed his tail
edgewise, making a mark like the tail of a deer-
mouse ; sometimes they were moving fast, and
there was an interval of five feet between the
AUTUMN. 393
tracks. I saw one place where there was a zig
zag piece of black ice two rods long and a foot
wide in the midst of the white, which I was sur
prised to find had been made by an otter push
ing his way through the slush. He had left
fishes' scales, etc., at the end. These very con
spicuous tracks generally commenced and termi
nated at some button-bush or willow where black
ice now marked the hole of that date. It is sur
prising that our hunters know no more about
them. When I speak of the otter to our oldest
village doctor, who should be ex officio a natu
ralist, he is greatly surprised, not knowing that
such an animal is found in these parts, and I
have to remind him that the Pilgrims sent home
many otter skins in the first vessels that re
turned, together with beaver, mink, and black-
fox skins, 1,156 pounds of other skins in the
years 1631-36, which brought fourteen or fifteen
shillings a pound, also 12,530 pounds of beaver
skins.1 In many places the otters appeared to
have gone floundering along in the slushy ice
and water.
On all sides in swamps and about their edges,
and in the woods, the bare shrubs are sprinkled
with buds more or less noticeable and pretty,
their little gemma3 or gems their most vital and
attractive parts now, almost all the greenness
1 Vide Bradford's History.
394 AUTUMN.
and color left, greens and salads for the birds
and rabbits. Our eyes go searching along the
stem for what is most vivacious and characteris
tic, the concentrated summer gone into winter
quarters. For we are hunters pursuing the
summer on snow-shoes and skates all winter
long, and there is really but one season in our
hearts.
Dec. 7, 1838. Never do we live a quite free
life, like Adam's, but are enveloped in an invisi
ble network of speculations. Our progress is
from one such speculation to another, and only
at rare intervals do we perceive that it is no
progress. Could we for a moment drop this by
play, and simply wonder without reference or
inference !
Dec. 7, 1852. P. M. Perhaps the warmest
day yet. True Indian summer. The walker
perspires. The shepherd's - purse is in full
bloom ; the andromeda not turned red. Saw a
pile of snow-fleas in a rut in the wood-path, six
or seven inches long, and three quarters of an
inch high ; to the eye exactly like powder, as if
a sportsman had spilled it from his flask, and
when a stick was passed through the living and
skipping mass, each side of the furrow preserved
its edge, as in powder.
Dec. 7, 1856. Skate to Fair Haven pond.
This is the first skating. It takes my feet a
AUTUMN. 395
few moments to get used to the skates. I see
the track of one skater who has preceded me
this morning. Now I go skating over hobbly
places, now shoot over a bridge of ice only a
foot wide between the water and the shore at a
bend. Now I suddenly see the trembling sur
face of water where I thought were black spots
of ice only, around me. The river is rather
low, so that I cannot keep to it above the Clam
shell bend. I am confined to a very narrow
edging of ice on the meadow, gliding with unex
pected ease through withered sedge, but slipping
sometimes on a twig, again taking the snow to
reach the next ice, but this rests my feet ; strad
dling the bare black willows, winding between
the button-bushes, and following narrow thread-
ings of ice amid the sedge, which bring me out
to clear fields unexpectedly. Occasionally I am
obliged to take a few strokes over black and
thin-looking ice where the neighboring bank is
springy, and am slow to acquire confidence in it,
but returning, how bold I am ! Now I glide
over a field of white air-cells close to the sur
face, with covering no thicker than egg-shells,
cutting through with a sharp crackling sound.
There are many of those singular spider-shaped
dark places amid the white ice, where the surface-
water has run through some days ago. That
grand old poem called Winter is round again
396 AUTUMN.
without any connivance of mine. As I sit under
Lee's Cliff, where the snow is melted, amid sere
pennyroyal and frostbitten catnip, I look over
my shoulder upon an arctic scene, and see with
surprise the pond, a dumb white surface of ice
speckled with snow, just as so many winters
before, where so lately were lapsing waves or
smooth, reflecting water. I see the holes which
the pickerel fisher has made, and I see him, too,
retreating over the hills drawing his sled behind
him. The water is already skimmed over again,
and I hear the familiar belching voice of the
pond. It seemed as if winter had come without
any interval since midsummer, and I was pre
pared to see it flit away by the time I again
looked over my shoulder. It was as if I had
dreamed it. The winters come now as fast as
snowflakes. It is wonderful that old men do not
lose their reckoning. It was summer, and now
again it is winter. Nature loves this rhyme so
well that she never tires of repeating it. So
sweet and wholesome is the winter, so simple and
moderate, so satisfactory and perfect, that her
children will never weary of it. What a poem,
an epic in blank verse, enriched with a million
tinkling rhymes ! It is solid beauty. It has
been subjected to the vicissitudes of millions of
years of the gods, and not a superfluous orna
ment remains. The severest and coldest of the
AUTUMN. 397
immortal critics have shot their arrows at it,
and pruned it, till it cannot be amended.
You will see full-grown woods where the oaks
and pines and birches are separated by right
lines, growing in squares or other rectilinear fig
ures, because different lots were cut at different
times.
Dec. 7, 1857. Running the long northwest
side of Richardson's Fair Haven lot. It is a
fine, sunny, and warm day in t/ie woods for the
season. We eat our dinner in the middle of the
line, amid the young oaks in a sheltered and un
frequented place. I cut some leafy shrub oaks,
and cast them down for a dry and springy seat.
As I sit there amid the sweet fern, talking with
my man, Briney, I observe that its recent
shoots (which like many larger bushes and trees
have a few leaves in a tuft still at the extremi
ties) toward the sun are densely covered with a
slight silvery down which looks like frost, so
thick and white. Looking the other way, I see
none of it, but the bare reddish twigs. Even
this is a cheering and compensating discovery in
my otherwise barren work. I get thus a few
positive values answering to the bread and
cheese which makes my dinner. I owe thus to
my week's surveying a few such slight, but posi
tive discoveries.
Dec. 8, 1838. Nothing in Nature is sneak-
398 AUTUMN.
ing or chap-fallen, as somewhat maltreated or
slighted, but each is satisfied with its being, and
so is as lavender and balm. If skunk-cabbage
is offensive to the nostrils of men, still has it
not drooped in consequence, but trustfully un
folded its leaf of two handsbreadth. What was
it to Lord Byron whether England owned or
disowned him, whether he smelled sour and was
skunk-cabbage to the English nostril, or, vio
let-like, the pride of the land and ornament of
every lady's boudoir. Let not the oyster grieve
that he has lost the race ; he has gained as an
oyster.
Dec. 8, 1850. It snowed in the night of the
6th, and the ground is now covered ; our first
snow, two inches deep. I see no tracks now of
cows or men or boys beyond the edge of the
wood. Suddenly they are shut up. The re
mote pastures and hills beyond the woods are
closed to cows and cowherds, aye, and to cow
ards. I am struck by this sudden solitude and
remoteness which these places have acquired.
The dear privacy and retirement and solitude
which winter makes possible, carpeting the
earth with snow, furnishing more than woolen
feet to all walkers ! From Fair Haven I see the
hills and fields, aye and the icy woods in the
Corner, gleam with the dear old wintry sheen.
Those are not surely the cottages I have seen all
AUTUMN. 399
summer. They are some cottages which I have
in my mind.
It is interesting to observe the manner in
which the plants bear their snowy burden. The
dry calyx-leaves, like an oblong cup, of the
Trichostema dichotomum in the woodpath, have
caught the rain or melting snow, and so this
little butter-boat is filled with a frozen pure
drop which stands up high above the sides of
the cup, so many pearly drops covering the
whole plant. The pennyroyal there also retains
its fragrance under the ice and snow.
Dec. 8, 1852. One cannot burn or bury even
his old shoes without a feeling of sadness and
compassion, much more his own body, without a
slight sense of guilt.
Dec. 8, 1853. 7 A. M. How can we spare to
be abroad in the morning red, to see the forms
of the eastern trees against the dun sky, and hear
the cocks crow, when a thin low mist hangs over
the ice and frost in meadows. I have come
along the river-side in Merrick's pasture to col
lect for kindling the fat pine roots and knots
which the spearers dropped last spring, and
which the floods have washed up. Get a heap
ing bushel-basket full.
Dec. 8, 1854. p. M. Up river and meadow
on ice to Hubbard's Bridge, and thence to Wai-
den. Winter has come unnoticed by me, I
400 AUTUMN.
have been so busy writing. This is the life
most lead in respect of nature. How different
from my habitual one ! It is hasty, coarse, and
trivial, as if you were a spindle in a factory.
The other is leisurely, fine, and glorious, like a
flower. In the first case, you are merely getting
your living. In the second, you live as you go
along. You travel only on roads of the proper
grade, without jar or running off the track, and
sweep around the hills by beautiful curves.
Here is the river frozen over in many places.
The skating is all hobbled like a coat of mail or
thickly bossed shield, apparently sleet frozen in
water. How black the water where the river
is open, when I look from the light, by contrast
with the surrounding white, the ice and snow !
a black artery, here and there concealed under
a pellicle of ice. Went over the fields on the
crust, to Walden, over side of Bear Garden.
Already foxes have left their tracks. How the
crust shines afar, the sun now setting. There
is a glorious clear sunset sky, soft and delicate
and warm, even like a pigeon's neck. Why do
the mountains never look so fair as from my
native fields ?
Dec. 8, 1855. This afternoon I go to the
woods down the railroad, seeking the society of
some flock of little birds, or some squirrel, but
in vain. I only hear the faint lisp of probably a
A UTUMN. 401
tree sparrow. I go through empty halls, appar
ently unoccupied by bird or beast. Yet it is
cheering to walk there, while the sun is reflected
from far through the aisles with a silvery light
from the needles of the pine. The contrast of
light or sunshine and shade, though the latter
is now so thin, is food enough for me. In a
little busy flock of lisping birds, chickadees or
lesser red-polls, even in a nuthatch or downy
woodpecker, there would have been a sweet
society for me. But I did not find it. Yet I
had the sun penetrating into the deep hollows
through the aisles of the wood, and the silvery
sheen of its reflection from masses of white pine
needles.
Jacob Farmer brought me the head of a mink
to-night, and took tea here. He says he can
call a male quail close to him by imitating
the note of the female, which is only a faint
whistle.
Dec. 8, 1856. 8° above zero. Probably the
coldest day yet.
Bradford, in his history of the Plymouth Plan
tation, remembering the condition of the Pil
grims on their arrival in Cape Cod Bay the llth
of November, 1620, O. S., says (p. 79), " Which
way so ever they turned their eyes (save up
ward to the heavens) they could have little sol
ace or content in respect of any outward objects,
402 AUTUMN.
for, summer being done, all things stared upon
them with a weather beaten face, and the whole
country, full of woods and thickets, represented
a wild and savage hue." Such was a New Eng
land November, in 1620, to Bradford's eyes, and
such no doubt it would be to his eyes in the
country still. It required no little courage to
found a colony here at that season of the year.
The earliest mention of anything like a glaze in
New England that I remember is in the same
History, p. 83, where Bradford describes the
second expedition from Cape Cod Harbor in
search of a settlement, the 6th of December,
O. S. : " The weather was very cold, and it froze
so hard as the spray of the sea lighting on their
coats, they were as if they had been glazed."
Bradford was one of the ten principal persons.
That same night they reached the bottom of the
Bay, and saw the Indians cutting up a black-
fish. Nature has not changed one iota.
Dec. 8, 1857. S says he came to Con
cord twenty-four years ago, a poor boy, with a
dollar and three cents in his pocket, and he
spent the three cents for drink at Bigelow's
tavern, and now he is worth " twenty hundred
dollars clear." He remembers many who in
herited wealth whom he could buy out to-day.
I told him that he had done better than I, in a
pecuniary respect, for I had only earned my
AUTUMN. 403
living. " Well," said he, "that 's all I Ve done,
and I don't know as I Ve got much better
clothes than you." I was particularly poorly
clad then, in the woods ; my hat, pants, boots,
rubbers, and gloves would not have brought
fourpence, and I told the Irishman that it
was n't everybody could afford to have a fringe
round his legs, as I had, my corduroys not pre
serving a selvage.
Dec. 8, 1859. How is it that what is actually
present and transpiring is commonly perceived
by the common sense and understanding only, is
bare and bald, without halo, or the blue enamel
of intervening air ? But let it be past or to come,
and it is at once idealized. The man dead is
spiritualized, the fact remembered is idealized.
It is ripe and with the bloom on it. It is not
simply the understanding now, but the imagina
tion that takes cognizance of it. The imagina
tion requires a long range. It is the faculty of
the poet to see present things as if in this sense
past and future, as if distant or universally sig
nificant. We do not know poets, heroes, and
saints for our contemporaries, but we locate
them in some far off vale ; the greater and
better, the farther off we are accustomed to con
sider them. We believe in spirits, we believe in
beauty, but not now and here. They have their
abode in the remote past, or in the future.
404 AUTUMN.
Dec. 9, 1852. P. M. To A. Smith's hill.
Those little ruby-crowned lesser red -polls still
about. They suddenly flash away from this side
to that, in flocks, with a tumultuous note, half
gurgle, half rattle, like nuts shaken in a bag,
or a bushel of nutshells, soon returning to the
tree they had forsaken on some alarm. They
are oftenest seen on the white birch, apparently
feeding on its seeds, scattering the scales about.
A fresh dandelion. The chestnuts are about
as plenty as ever, both in the faUen burrs and
out of them. There are more this year than
the squirrels can consume. I picked three pints
this afternoon, and did not find one mouldy one
among those which I picked from under the wet
and mouldy leaves. They are plump and tender.
I love to gather them, if only for the sense of the
bountifulness of nature they give me. A few
petals of the witch hazel still hold on. A man
tells me he saw a violet to-day.
In the " Homes of American Authors," it is
said of most that at one time they wrote for the
"North American Review." It is one of my
qualifications that I have not written an article
for the " North American Review."
Dec. 9, 1856. p. M. Railroad to Lincoln
bridge and back by road. From a little east of
Wyman's I look over the pond westward. The
sun is near setting, away beyond Fair Haven.
AUTUMN. 405
A bewitching stillness reigns through all the
woodland, and over all the snow-clad landscape.
Indeed, the winter day in the woods or fields has
commonly the stillness of twilight. The pond
is perfectly smooth and full of light. I hear
only the strokes of a lingering woodchopper at
a distance and the melodious hooting of an owl,
which is as common and marked a sound as that
of the axe or the locomotive whistle ; yet where
does the ubiquitous hooter sit? and who sees
him? In whose wood-lot is he to be found?
Few eyes have rested on him hooting, few on
him silent on his perch even, yet cut away the
woods never so much year after year, though the
chopper has not seen him, and only a grove or
two is left, still his aboriginal voice is heard in
definitely far and sweet, mingled oft in strange
harmony with the newly invented din of trade,
hooting from his invisible perch at his foes, the
woodchoppers who are invading his domains.
As the earth only a few inches beneath the sur
face is undisturbed and what it was anciently,
so are heard still some primeval sounds in the
air. Some of my townsmen I never see, and of
a great proportion I do not hear the voices in a
year, though they live within my horizon ; but
every week almost, I hear the loud voice of the
hooting owl, though I do not see the bird more
than once in ten years.
406 AUTUMN.
I perceive that more or other things are seen
in the reflection than in the substance. As I
look over the pond westward, I see in substance
the now bare outline of Fair Haven Hill, a mile
beyond ; whereas in the reflection I see not this,
only the tops of some pines which stand close
to the shore, but are invisible against the dark
hill beyond, and these are indefinitely prolonged
into points of shadow.
The sun is set, and over the valley which
looks like an outlet of Walden toward Fair
Haven, I see a burnished bar of cloud stretched
low and level, as if it were the bar over that
passage-way to Elysium, the last column in the
train of the sun. When I get as far as my bean-
field, the reflected white in the winter horizon
of the perfectly cloudless sky is being condensed
at the horizon's edge, and its hue deepening into
a dun golden, against which the tops of the trees,
pines and elms, are seen with a beautiful dis
tinctness, and a slight blush begins to suffuse
the eastern horizon, and so the picture of the
day is done, and set in a gilded frame. Such is
a winter eve. Now for a merry fire, some old
poet's pages, or else serene philosophy, or even
a healthy book of travels, to last far into the
night, eked out perhaps with the walnuts which
we gathered in November.
The worker who would accomplish much these
AUTUMN. 407
short days, must shear a dusky slice off both
ends of the night. The chopper must work as
long as he can see, often returning home by
moonlight, and set out for the woods again by
candle-light.
The northwest wind meeting the current in an
exposed place produces that hobbly ice which I
described at Cardinal Shore day before yester
day. Such is the case in this place every year,
and no doubt the same phenomenon occurred
annually at this point in the river, a thousand
years before America was discovered. This reg
ularity and permanence make these phenomena
more interesting to me.
Dec. 9, 1858. At New Bedford. See a song
sparrow and a pigeon woodpecker. Dr. Bryant
tells of the latter pecking holes in blinds, and
also in his barn roof and sides in order to get
into it, holes in the window sashes or casings, as
if a nail had been driven into them.
Dec. 10, 1837. Not the carpenter alone car
ries his rule in his pocket. Space is quite sub
dued to us. The meanest peasant finds in a hair
of his head, or the white crescent upon his nail,
the unit of measure for the distance of the fixed
stars. His middle finger measures how many
digits into space. He extends a few times his
thumb and finger, and the continent is spanned.
He stretches out his arms, and the sea is fath
omed.
408 AUTUMN.
Dec. 10, 1840. I discover a strange track in
the snow, and learn that some migrating otter
has made across from the river to the wood, by
my yard and the smith's shop, in the silence of
the night. I cannot but smile at my own wealth
when I am thus reminded that every chink and
cranny of nature is full to overflowing. Such
an incident as this startles me with the assur
ance that the primeval nature is still working,
and makes tracks in the snow. It is my own
fault that he must thus skulk across my prem
ises by night. Now I yearn toward him, and
heaven to me consists in a complete commu
nion with the otter nature. He travels a more
wooded path by watercourses and hedgerows, I
by the highways, but though his tracks are now
crosswise to mine, our courses are not divergent,
but we shall meet at last.
Mere innocence will tame any ferocity.
Dec. 10, 1853. Another still more glorious
day, if possible. Indian summer, even. These
are among the finest days in the year, on account
of the wholesome bracing coolness and clearness.
Paddled up Assabet. Passed in some places be
tween shooting ice crystals extending from both
sides of the stream. Upon the thinnest black
ice crystals, just cemented, was the appearance
of broad fern leaves or ostrich plumes, or flat
fir-trees with branches bent down. The surface
AUTUMN. 409
was far from even, rather in sharp-edged plaits
and folds. The form of the crystals was often-
est that of low flattish or three-sided pyramids.
When the base was very broad, the apex was
imperfect, with many irregular rosettes of small
and perfect pyramids, the largest with bases
two or three inches long. All this appeared to
advantage only while the ice (one twelfth of an
inch thick, perhaps), rested on the black water.
What I write about at home, I understand so
well comparatively, and I write with such re
pose and freedom from exaggeration.
Dec. 10, 1854. p. M. To Nut Meadow.
Weather warmer. Snow softened. Saw a large
flock of snow-buntings (quite white against
woods, at any rate), though it is quite warm.
Snow-fleas in paths ; first I have seen. Hear
the small woodpecker's whistle ; not much else,
only crows and partridges and chickadees. How
quickly the snow feels the warmer wind. The
crust, which was so firm and rigid, is now sud
denly softened, and there is much water in the
road.
Dec. 10, 1856. A fine, clear, cold winter
morning, with a small leaf-frost on trees, etc.
The thermometer at 7.15 and 7.30 A. M., 3° +
It is remarkable how suggestive the slightest
drawing is as a memento of things seen. For a
few years past I have been accustomed to make
410 AUTUMN.
a rude sketch in my journal, of plants, ice, and
various natural phenomena, and though the full
est accompanying description may fail to recall
my experience, these rude outline drawings do
not fail to carry me back to that time and scene.
It is as if I saw the same thing again, and I
may again attempt to describe it in words, if I
choose.
Yesterday I walked under the murderous
Lincoln bridge, where at least ten men have
been swept dead from the cars within as many
years. I looked to see if their heads had in
dented the bridge, if there were sturdy blows
given as well as received, and if their brains lay
about. The place looks as innocent as " a bank
whereon the wild thyme grows." The bridge
does its work in an artistic manner. We have
another of exactly the same character in another
part of the town, which has killed one, at least,
to my knowledge. Surely the approaches to our
town are well guarded. These are our modern
dragons of Wantley. Buccaneers of the Fitch-
burg Railroad, they lie in wait at the narrow
passes, and decimate the employees. The Com
pany has signed a bond to give up one employee
at this pass annually. The Vermont mother
commits her son to their charge, and when she
asks for him again, the directors say, " I am not
your son's keeper ; go look beneath the ribs
AUTUMN. 411
of the Lincoln bridge." It is a monster which
would not have minded Perseus with his Me
dusa's head. If he could be held back only four
feet from where he now crouches, all travelers
might pass in safety, and laugh him to scorn.
This would require but a little resolution in our
legislature, but it is preferred to pay tribute
still.
Dec. 11, 1840. A man who had failed to ful
fill an engagement, and grossly disappointed me,
came to me to-night with a countenance radiant
with repentance, and so behaved that it seemed
as if I was the defaulter and could not be satis
fied till he would let me stand in that light.
How long a course of strict integrity might have
come short of such confidence and good will I
The crack of his whip was before attractive
enough, but such conciliatory words from that
shaggy coat and coarse comforter I had not ex
pected. I saw the meaning which lurked far
behind eye, all the better for the dark, as we see
some faint stars better when we do not look
directly at them with the full light of the eye.
A true contrition, when witnessed, will humble
integrity itself.
Dec. 11, 1853. To Heywood's Pond and
up brook. Almost a complete Indian-summer
day, clear and warm. I am without greatcoat.
Ch. says he saw larks yesterday, a painted tor-
412 AUTUMN.
toise the day before, under ice at White Pond,
and a ground robin (?) last week. He conjec
tures, I am told, that the landscape looks fairer
when we turn our heads upside down, because
we behold it with nerves of the eye unused
before. Perhaps this reason is worth more for
suggestion than explanation. It occurs to me
that the reflection of objects in still water is in
a similar manner fairer than the substance, and
yet we do not employ unused nerves to behold
it. Is it not that we let much more light into
our eyes (which in the usual position are shaded
by the brows), in the first case, by turning them
more to the sky, and in the case of the reflec
tions, by having the sky placed under our feet ?
that is, in both cases we see terrestrial objects,
with the sky or heavens for a background or
field ; accordingly they are not dark or terrene,
but lit and elysian.
Dec. 11, 1854. p. M. To Bare Hill. We
have now those early, still, clear winter sunsets
over the snow. It is but mid-afternoon when I
see the sun setting far through the woods, and
there is that peculiar, clear, vitreous, greenish
sky in the west, as it were, a molten gem. The
day is short. It seems to be composed of two
twilights merely. The morning and the evening
twilight make the whole day. You must make
haste to do the work of the day before it is dark.
AUTUMN. 413
I hear rarely a bird except the chickadee, or
perchance a jay or a crow. A gray rabbit scuds
away over the crust in the swamp on the edge of
the Great Meadows beyond Peters's. A par
tridge goes off, and coming up, I see where she
struck the snow with her wings, making five or
six, as it were, finger-marks.
Dec. 11, 1855. P. M. To Holden Swamp,
Conantum. For the first time I wear gloves,
but I have not walked early this season. I see
no birds, but hear, I think, one or two tree
sparrows. No snow, scarcely any ice to be
detected ; it is only aggravated November. I
thread the tangle of the spruce swamp, admiring
the leaflets of the swamp pyrus which had put
forth again, now frost-bitten, the great yellow
buds of the swamp pink, the round red buds of
the high blueberry, and the firm sharp red ones
of the panicled andromeda. Slowly I worm my
way amid the snarl, the thicket of black alder,
blueberry, etc., see the forms, apparently of rab
bits, at the foot of maples, and cat-birds' nests
now exposed in the leafless thicket. Standing
there, though in this bare November landscape,
I am reminded of the incredible phenomenon
of small birds in winter, that erelong, amid the
cold, powdery snow, as it were a fruit of the
season, will come twittering a flock of delicate,
crimson-tinged birds, lesser red-polls, to sport
414 AUTUMN.
and feed on the seeds and buds just ripe for
them on the sunny side of a wood, shaking down
the powdery snow there in their cheerful social
feeding, as if it were high midsummer to them.
These crimson aerial creatures have wings which
would bear them quickly to the regions of sum
mer, but here is all the summer they want.
What a rich contrast ! tropical colors, crimson
breasts, on cold white snow ! Such etherealness,
such delicacy in their forms, such ripeness in their
colors, in this stern and barren season ! It is as
surprising as if you were to find a brilliant crim
son flower which flourished amid snow. They
greet the hunter and the chopper in their furs.
Their maker gave them the last touch, and
launched them forth the day of the Great Snow.
He made this bitter imprisoning cold, before
which man quails, but he made at the same time
these warm and glowing creatures to twitter and
be at home in it. He said not only, let there be
linnets in winter, but linnets of rich plumage
and pleasing twitter, bearing summer in their
natures. The snow will be three feet deep,
the ice will be two feet thick, and last night,
perchance, the mercury sank to thirty degrees
below zero. All the fountains of nature seem
to be sealed up. The traveler is frozen on his
way, but under the edge of yonder birch wood
will be a little flock of crimson-breasted lesser
AUTUMN. 415
red-polls, feeding on the seeds of the birch, as
if a flower were created to be now in bloom, a
peach to be now first fully ripe on its stem. I
am struck by the perfect confidence and success
of Nature. There is no question about the ex
istence of these delicate creatures, their adapt-
edness to their circumstances. There is added
superfluous painting and adornment, a crystal
line, jewel-like health and soundness, like the
colors reflected from ice-crystals. When some
rare northern bird, like the pine grossbeak, is
seen thus far south, in the winter, he does not
suggest poverty, but dazzles us with his beauty.
There is in them a warmth that is akin to the
warmth that melts the icicle. Here is no im
perfection suggested. The winter with its snow
and ice is not an evil to be corrected. It is as
it was designed and made to be, for the artist
has had leisure to add beauty to use. I had
a vision thus prospectively, as I stood in the
swamp, of these birds, my acquaintances, angels
from the north. I saw this familiar, too familiar
fact, at a different angle, and I was charmed and
haunted by it. I had seen into paradisaic re
gions with their air and sky, and I was no longer
wholly or merely a denizen of this vulgar earth.
Yet I had hardly a foothold there. It is only
necessary to behold thus the least fact or phe
nomenon, however familiar, from a point a hair's
416 A UTUMN.
breadth aside from our habitual path or routine,
to be overcome, enchanted by its beauty and sig
nificance. Only what we have touched and worn
is trivial, our scurf, repetition, tradition, con
formity. To perceive freshly, with fresh senses,
is to be inspired. Great winter itself looked
like a precious gem reflecting rainbow colors
from one angle. My body is all sentient. As
I go here or there, I am tickled by this or that
I come in contact with, as if I touched the wires
of a battery. I can generally recall, have fresh
in my mind, several scratches last received.
These I continually recall to mind, reimpress
and harp upon. The age of miracles is each
moment thus returned ; now it is wild apples,
now river reflections, now a flock of lesser red
polls. In winter, too, resides immortal youth
and perennial summer. Its head is not silvered,
its cheek is not blanched, but has a ruby tinge
in it. If any part of nature excites our pity, it
is for ourselves we grieve, for there is eternal
health and beauty. We get only transient and
partial glimpses of the beauty of the world.
Standing at the right angle, we &re dazzled by
the colors of the rainbow in colorless ice. From
the right point of view, every storm and every
drop in it is a rainbow. Beauty and music are
not mere traits and exceptions; they are the
rule and character. It is the exception that we
AUTUMN. 417
see and hear. Then I try to discover what it
was in the vision that charmed and translated
me. What if we could daguerreotype our
thoughts and feelings ! — for I am surprised
and enchanted often by some quality which I
cannot detect. I have seen an attribute of an
other world and condition of things. It is a
wonderful fact that I should be affected, and
thus deeply and powerfully, more than by aught
else in all my experience, that this fruit should
be borne in me, sprung from a seed finer than
the spores of fungi floated from other atmos
pheres ! finer than the dust caught in the sails
of vessels a thousand miles from land ! Here
the invisible seeds settle, and spring, and bear
flowers and fruits of immortal beauty.
Dec. 11, 1856. Minott tells me that his and
his sister's wood-lot contains about ten acres,
and has, with a very slight exception at one
time, supplied all their fuel for thirty years, and
he thinks would constantly continue to do so.
They keep one fire all the time, and two some of
the time, and burn about eight cords in a year.
He knows his wood-lot, and what grows in it, as
well as an ordinary farmer does his cornfield, for
he has cut his own wood till within two or three
years, knows the history of every stump on it,
and the age of every sapling, knows how many
beech-trees and black birches there are, as an-
418 AUTUMN.
other knows his pear or cherry trees. It is
more economical as well as more poetical to have
a wood-lot, and cut and get your own wood from
year to year than to buy it at your own door.
Minott may say to his trees, " Submit to my axe ;
I cut your father on this very spot." How
many sweet passages there must have been in
his life there, chopping all alone in the short
winter days! How many rabbits, partridges,
foxes he saw ! A rill runs through the lot where
he quenched his thirst, and several times he has
laid it bare. At last rheumatism has made him
a prisoner, and he is compelled to let a stranger,
a vandal it may be, go into his lot with an axe.
It is fit that he should be buried there.
Dec. 12, 1837. There are times when thought
elbows her way through the underwood of words
to the clear blue beyond : —
" O'er bog or steep, though strait, rough, dense, or rare,
With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues her way,
And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies."
But let her don her cumbersome working-day
garment, and each sparkling dewdrop will seem
a " Slough of Despond."
When we speak of a peculiarity in a man or
a nation, we think sometimes to describe a mere
mathematical point. But in fact it pervades the
whole, as a drop of wine in a glass of water
tinges the whole glass. Some parts may be fur-
AUTUMN. 419
ther removed than others from the centre, but
not a particle so remote as not to be shined on
or shaded by it.
No part of man's nature is formed with a
useless or sinister intent. In no respect can
he be wholly bad, but the worst passions have
their root in the best. So a spine is proved to
be only an abortive branch " which, notwith
standing, even as a spine, bears leaves, and in
Euphorbia heptagona, sometimes flowers and
fruit."
Dec. 12, 1840. Society seems very natural
and easy. Can I not walk among men as sim
ply as in the woods ? I am greeted everywhere
with mild looks and words, and it seems as if
the eaves were running, and I heard the sough
of melting snow all around me.
The young pines springing up in the cornfields
from year to year are to me a much more refresh
ing fact than the most abundant harvests. My
last stronghold is the forest.
Dec. 12, 1851. In regard to my friends, I
feel that I know and have communion with a
finer and subtler part of themselves which does
not put me off when they put me off, which is
not cold to me when they are cold, not till I am
cold. I hold by a deeper and stronger tie than
absence can sunder.
Ah, dear nature, the mere remembrance, after
420 AUTUMN.
a short forgetfulness, of the pine woods ! I
come to it as a hungry man to a crust of bread.
I have been surveying for twenty or thirty
days, living coarsely, even as respects my diet
(for I find that will always alter to suit my em
ployment), indeed leading a quite trivial life,
and to-night, for the first time, made a fire in
my chamber and endeavored to return to myself.
I wished to ally myself' to the powers that rule
the universe. I wished to dive into some deep
stream of thoughtful and devoted life which
meanders through retired and fertile meadows
far from towns. I wished to do again, or for
once, things quite congenial to my highest, in
most, and most sacred nature, to lurk in crystal
line thought like the trout under verdurous banks
where stray mankind should only see my bub
ble come to the surface. I wished to live, ah,
as far away as a man can think. I wished for
leisure and quiet to let my life flow in its proper
channels, with its proper currents, when I might
not waste the days, might establish daily prayer
and thanksgiving in my family, might do my
own work, and not the work of Concord and
Carlisle, which would yield me better than
money. I bethought myself, while my fire was
kindling, to open one of Emerson's books, which
it happens that I rarely look at, to try what a
chance sentence out of that could do for me,
AUTUMN. 421
thinking at the same time of a conversation I
had with him the other night, I finding fault
with him for the stress he had laid on some of
Margaret Fuller's whims and superstitions, but
he declaring gravely that she was one of those
persons whose experience warranted her attach
ing importance to such things as the Sortes Vir-
giliance, for instance, of which her numerous
friends could give remarkable accounts. At any
rate, I saw that he was disposed to regard such
things more seriously than I. The first sentence
which I opened upon in his book was this, " If,
with a high trust, he can thus submit himself,
he will find that ample returns are poured into
his bosom, out of what seemed hours of obstruc
tion and loss. Let him not grieve too much on
account of unfit associates," etc. ; " in a society
of perfect sympathy, no word, no act, no record
would be. He will learn that it is not much
matter what he reads, what he does. Be a
scholar, and he shall have the scholar's part of
everything," etc. Most of this corresponded well
enough with my mood, and this would be as good
an instance of the Sortes Virgiliance as most, to
quote. But what makes this coincidence very
little, if at all, remarkable to me, is the fact of
the obviousness of the moral, so that I had per
haps thought the same thing myself twenty times
during the day, and yet had not been contented
422 AUTUMN.
with that account of it, leaving me thus to be
amused by the coincidence, rather than impressed
as by an intimation out of the deeps.
How much forbearance, aye, sacrifice and loss,
goes to every accomplishment ! I am thinking
by what long discipline and at what cost, a man
learns to speak simply at last.
Nothing is so sure to make itself known as
the truth, for what else waits to be known.
Dec. 12, 1852. Colder at last. Saw a violet
on the C. Miles road where the bank had been
burned in the fall. Beomyces rosea, also.
Tansy still fresh yellow, by the lower bridge.
From Cliffs, I see snow on the mountains. Last
night's rain was then snow there. They now
have a parti - colored look, like the skin of a
pard, as if they were spread with a saddle-cloth
for Boreas to ride. I hear of a cultivated rose
blossoming in a garden in Cambridge within a
day or two. The buds of the aspen are large,
and show wool in the fall.
Dec. 12, 1856. Wonderful, wonderful is our
life, and that of our companions ! That there
should be such a thing as a brute animal, not
human ! that it should attain to a sort of society
with our race ! Think of cats, for instance ;
they are neither Chinese nor Tartars, they nei
ther go to school, nor read the Testament. Yet
how near they come to doing so, how much they
AUTUMN. 423
are like us who do so. At length without hav
ing solved any of these problems, we fatten and
kill and eat some of our cousins !
Where is the great natural historian ? Is he
a butcher ? or the patron of butchers ? As well
look for a great anthropologist among cannibals
or New Zealanders.
Dec. 12, 1858. Up river on ice to Fair Ha
ven Hill. I see an immense flock of snow bunt
ings, I think the largest I ever saw. There
must be a thousand or two, at least. There is
but three inches at most of crusted and dry
frozen snow, and they are running amid the
weeds that rise above it. They are very rest
less, and continually changing their ground.
They will suddenly rise again a few seconds
after they have alighted, as if alarmed, but after
a short wheel, settle close by. As they fly from
you in some positions, you see only or chiefly
the black part of their bodies, and then as they
wheel, the white comes into view, contrasted
prettily with the former, and in all together at
the same time. Seen flying higher against a
cloudy sky, they look like snowflakes. When
they rise all together, their note is like the
rattling of nuts in a bag, as if a whole bin-full
were rolled from side to side. They also utter
from time to time, that is, individuals do, a
clear rippling note, perhaps an alarm or call. It
424 AUTUMN.
is remarkable that their note, above described,
should resemble the lesser red-polls'. Away
goes the great wheeling, rambling flock, rolling
through the air, and you cannot easily tell where
they will settle. Suddenly the pioneers, or a
part not foremost, will change their course,
when in full career, and, when at length they
know it, the rushing flock on the other side
will be fetched about, as it were, with an undu
lating jerk, as in the boys' game of snap-the-
whip, and those that occupy the place of the.
snapper are gradually off after their leaders on
the new track. Like a snowstorm, they come
rushing down from the north. They are unusu
ally abundant now. I should like to know
where all these snowbirds will roost to-night,
for they will probably roost together. What
havoc an owl might make among them ! So far
as I observe, they confine themselves to the
uplands, not alighting in the meadows. But
Melvin tells me he saw a thousand feeding a
long time in the Great Meadows, he thinks on
the seeds of the wool grass, about the same time
I saw those above described.
Dec. 13, 1851. Surveying to-day. We had
one hour of most Indian-summer weather in the
middle of the day. I felt the influence of the
sun. It softened my stoniness a little. The
pines looked like old friends again. Cutting a
AUTUMN. 425
path through swamp where was much brittle
dogwood, etc., I wanted to know the name of
every bush. This varied employment to which
my necessities compel me serves instead of for
eign travel and the lapse of time. If it makes
me forget some things which I ought to re
member, it no doubt makes me forget many
things which I ought to forget. By stepping
aside from my chosen path so often, I see my
self better, and am enabled to criticise myself
better. It seems an age since I took walks
and wrote in my journal, and when shall I re
visit the glimpses of the moon ? To be able to
see ourselves, not merely as others see us, but
as we are, that service a variety of absorbing
employments does us.
I would not be rude to the fine intimations of
the gods for fear of incurring the reproach of
superstition.
Saw Perez Blood in his frock, — a stuttering,
sure, unpretending man, who does not speak
without thinking, does not guess. When I re
flected how different he was from his neighbors,
I saw that it was not so much outwardly, but that
I saw an inner form. We do indeed see through
and through each other, through the veil of the
body, and see the real form and character, in
spite of the garment. Any coarseness or ten
derness is seen and felt under whatever garb.
420 AUTUMN.
How nakedly men appear to us, for the spirit
ual assists the natural eye.
Dec. 13, 1852. Walk early through the
woods to Lincoln to survey. Winter weather
may be said to have begun yesterday. Why
have I ever omitted early rising and a morning
walk ? As we walked over the Cedar Hill, Mr.
Weston asked me if I had ever noticed how the
frost formed about a particular weed in the
grass, and no other. It was a clear cold morn
ing. We stooped to examine, and I observed
about the base of the cistus the frost formed
into little flattened trumpets or bells, an inch or
more long, with the mouths down about the base
of the stem. They were very conspicuous, dot
ting the grass white. But the most remarkable
thing about it was that though there were plenty
of other dead weeds and grasses about, no other
species exhibited this phenomenon. I think it
can hardly be because of the form of its top, and
that therefore the moisture is collected and con
densed, and flows down its stem. It may have
something to do with the life of the root, which I
noticed was putting forth shoots beneath. Per
haps the growth generates heat and so steam.
Dec. 13, 1855. Sanborn tells me that he was
waked up a few nights ago in Boston about mid
night by the sound of a flock of geese passing
over the city, probably about the same night I
AUTUMN. 427
heard them here. They go honking over cities
where the arts flourish, waking the inhabitants,
over state-houses and capitols, where legislatures
sit, over harbors where fleets lie at anchor, —
mistaking the city, perhaps, for a swamp or
the edge of a lake, about settling in it, not sus
pecting that it is preoccupied by greater geese
than themselves.
Dec. 13, 1857. In sickness and barrenness,
it is encouraging to believe that our life is
dammed, and is coming to a head, so that there
seems to be no loss, for what is lost in time is
gained in power. All at once, unaccountably,
as we are walking in the woods, or sitting in
our chamber, after a worthless fortnight, we
cease to feel mean and barren.
Dec. 13, 1859. My first true winter walk is
perhaps that which I take on the river, or where
I cannot go in the summer. It is the walk pe
culiar to winter, and now first I take it. I see
that the fox has already taken the same walk be
fore me, just along the edge of the button-bushes
where not even he can go in the summer. We
both turn our steps hither at the same time.
Now at 2.30 p. M., the melon-rind arrange
ment of the clouds, really parallel columns of
fine mackerel sky reaching quite across the
heavens from west to east, with clear intervals
of blue sky ; and a fine-grained vapor like spun
428 AUTUMN.
glass extending in the same direction beneath
the former. In half an hour, all the mackerel
sky is gone.
What an ever-changing scene is the sky, its
drifting cirrus and stratus ! The spectators are
not requested to take a recess of fifteen minutes
while the scene changes, but, walking commonly
with our faces to the earth, our thoughts revert
to other objects, and as often as we look up, the
scene has changed. Now I see it is a column of
white vapor reaching quite across the sky from
west to east, with locks of fine hair or tow that
is carded, combed out on each side, surprising
touches here and there which show a peculiar
state of the atmosphere. No doubt the best
weather signs are in these forms which the
vapor takes. When I next look up the locks
of hair are perfect fir-trees, with their recurved
branches. These trees extend at right angles
from the side of the main column. This ap
pearance is changed all over the sky in one
minute.
Again it is pieces of asbestos, or the vapor
takes the curved form of the surf or breakers,
and again, of flames.
But how long can a man be in a mood to
watch the heavens ? That melon-rind arrange
ment, so very common, is perhaps a confirmation
of Wise the balloonist 's statement that at a
AUTUMN. 429
certain height there is a current of air moving
from west to east. Hence we so commonly
see the clouds arranged in parallel divisions in
that direction. What a spectacle the subtle
vapors that have their habitation in the sky pre
sent these winter days ! You have not only un
varying forms of a given type of cloud, but vari
ous types at different heights or hours. It is a
scene, for variety, for beauty and grandeur, out
of all proportion to the attention it gets. Who
watched the forms of the clouds over this part
of the earth a thousand years ago ? who watches
them to-day ?
When I reach the causeway at the Cut, re
turning, the sun has just set, a perfect winter
sunset, so fair and pure, with its golden and
purple isles, I think the summer rarely equals it.
There are real damask-colored isles or continents
north of the sun's place, and further off north
east they pass into bluish purple. Hayden's
house, one which I see there, seems the abode of
the blessed. The eastern horizon also is purple.
But that part of the parallel cloud columns over
head is now invisible. At length, the purple
travels westward, as the sunk sinks lower below
the horizon, the clouds overhead are brought
out, and so the purple glow glides down the
western sky.
Dec. 14, 1840. How may a man most cleanly
430 AUTUMN.
and gracefully depart out of nature ? At pres
ent Ms birth and death are offensive and un
clean things. Disease kills him and his carcass
smells to heaven. It offends the bodily sense
only so much as his life offended the moral
sense. It is the odor of sin. His carcass in
vites sun and moisture, and makes haste to
burst forth into new and disgusting forms of
life with which it already teemed. It was no
better than carrion before, but just animated
enough to keep off the crows. The birds of
prey which hover in the rear of an army are an
intolerable satire on mankind, and may well
make the soldier shudder. The mosquito sings
our dirge, he is Charon come to ferry us over
the Styx. He preaches a biting homily to us.
He says, put away beef and pork, small beer
and ale, and my trump shall die away, and be
no more heard. The intemperate cannot go
nigh to any wood or marsh, but he hears his re
quiem sung. Man lays down his body in the
field, and thinks from it, as a stepping-stone, to
vault at once into heaven, as if he could estab
lish a better claim, when he had left such a
witness behind him on the plain. Our true epi
taphs are those which the sun and wind write
upon the atmosphere around our graves so con
clusively that the traveler does not draw near to
read the lie on our tombstones. Shall we not
AUTUMN. 431
be judged rather by what we leave behind us,
than by what we bring into the world ? The
guest is known by his leavings. When we have
become intolerable to ourselves, shall we be
tolerable to heaven? Will our spirits ascend
pure and fragrant from our tainted carcasses?
May we not suffer our impurities gradually to
evaporate in sun and wind with the superfluous
juices of the body, and so wither and dry up,
at last, like a tree in the woods, which possesses
a sort of embalmed life after death, and is as
clean as the sapling or fresh buds of spring?
Let us die by dry rot at least. The dead tree
still stands erect without shame or offense
amidst its green brethren, the most picturesque
object in the wood. The painter puts it into
the foreground of his picture, for in its death it
is still remembered. When Nature finds man
returned on her hands, he is not simply the pure
elements she has contributed to his growth, but
with her floods she must wash away, and with
her fires burn up the filth that has accumulated,
before she can receive her own again. He
poisons her gales, and is a curse to the land
that gave him birth. She is obliged to employ
her scavengers in self-defense to abate the nui
sance. May not man cast his shell with as little
offense as the mussel, and it, perchance, be a
precious relic to be kept in the cabinets of the
432 AUTUMN.
curious ? May we not amuse ourselves with it,
as when we count the layers of a shell, and
apply it to our ear, to hear the history of its
inhabitant in the swells of the sea, the pulsation
of the life which once passed therein still faintly
echoed ? We confess that it was well done in
Nature thus to let out her particles of lime to
the mussel and coral, to receive them back again
with such interest.
The ancients were more tidy than we, who
subjected the body to the purification of fire be
fore they returned it upon nature, for fire is the
true washer ; water only displaces the impurity.
Fire is thorough, water is superficial.
Dec. 14, 1851. As for the weather, all sea
sons are pretty much alike to one who is actively
at work in the woods. I should say that there
were two or three remarkably warm days, and
as many cold ones in the course of the year,
but the rest are all alike in respect to tempera
ture. This is my answer to my acquaintances,
who ask if I have not found it very cold being
out all day.
I hear the small woodpecker whistle as he
flies toward the leafless wood on Fair Haven,
doomed to be out this winter. The chickadees
remind me of Hudson's Bay for some reason. I
look on them as natives of a more northern lati
tude.
AUTUMN. 433
The now dry and empty, but clean-washed
cups of the blue curls spot the half snow-covered
grain-fields. Where lately was a delicate blue
flower, now all the winter are held up these dry
chalices. What mementos to stand above the
snow !
Why not live out more yet, and have my
friends and relatives altogether in nature ? only
my acquaintances among the villagers ? That
way diverges from this I follow, not at a sharp,
but a very wide angle. Ah, nature is serene
and immortal. Am I not one of the Zincali ?
There are certain places where the ice will
always be open, where, perchance, warmer
springs come in. There are such places in
every character, genial and open in the coldest
seasons.
I come from contact with certain acquaint
ances, whom even I am disposed to look to
ward as possible friends. It oftenest happens
that I come from them wounded. Only they
can wound me seriously, and that perhaps with
out their knowing it.
Dec. 14, 1852. Ah, who can tell the serenity
and clarity of a New England winter sunset ?
This could not be till the cold and the snow
came. What isles those western clouds, in what
a sea!
Dec. 14, 1854. p. M. With C. up north
434 AUTUMN.
bank of Assabet to Bridge. The river is open
almost its whole length. It is a beautifully
smooth mirror with an icy frame. It is well to
improve such a time to walk by it. This strip
of water of irregular width over the channel be
tween broad fields of ice looks like a polished
silver mirror, or like another surface of polished
ice, and often is distinguished from the sur
rounding ice only by its reflections. I have
rarely seen any reflections (of weeds, willows,
and elms, and the houses of the village) so dis
tinct, the stems so black and distinct, for they
contrast not with a green meadow, but clear
white ice, to say nothing of the silvery surface
of the water. Your eye slides first over a plane
surface of smooth ice of one color, to a watery
surface of silvery smoothness, like a gem set in
ice, and reflecting the weeds, trees, houses, and
clouds with singular beauty. The reflections are
particularly simple and distinct. These twigs
are not referred to and confounded with a broad
green meadow from which they spring, as in
summer, but instead of that broad green ground
absorbing the light, is the abrupt white field of
ice.
Dec. 15, 1837. Jack Frost. As further con
firmation of the fact that vegetation is a kind of
crystallization, I observe that upon the edge
of the melting frost on the windows, Jack is
AUTUMN. 435
playing singular freaks, jiow bundling together
his needle-shaped leaves so as to resemble fields
waving with grain, or shocks of wheat rising
here and there from the stubble. On one side,
the vegetation of the torrid zone is presented,
high-towering palms, and wide-spread banyans,
such as we see in pictures of oriental scenery.
On the other, are arctic pines, stiff-frozen, with
branches downcast, like the arms of tender men
in frosty weather. In some instances, the panes
are covered with little feathery flocks where
the particles radiate from a common centre, the
number of radii varying from three to seven
or eight. The crystalline particles are partial
to the creases and flaws in the glass, and when
these extend from sash to sash, form complete
hedgerows, or miniature watercourses, where
dense masses of crystal foliage "high over
arched embower."
Dec. 15, 1838. Silence is ever less strange
than noise, lurking amid the boughs of the hem
lock or the pine, just in proportion as we find
ourselves there. The nuthatch tapping the up
right trunks by our side is only a partial spokes
man for the solemn stillness.
Silence is the communion of a conscious soul
with itself. If the soul attend for a moment to
its own infinity, then and there is silence. She
is audible to all men, at all times, in all places.
436 AUTUMN.
If we will, we may always hearken to her ad
monitions.
Dec. 15, 1840. When most at one with na
ture I feel supported and propped on all sides
by a myriad influences, as trees in the plain or
on the hillside are equally perpendicular. The
most upright man is he that most entirely re
clines (the prone recline but partially) ; by his
entire reliance he is most erect. Men of little
faith stand only by their feet, or recline on the
ground, having lost their reliance on the soul.
Nature is right, but man is straight. She erects
no beams, she slants no rafters, and yet she
builds stronger and truer than he. Everywhere
she preaches not abstract, but practical truth.
She is no beauty at her toilet, but her cheek is
flushed with exercise.
Dec. 15, 1856. 3 P. M. To Walden. I ob
serve B 's boat left out at the pond, as last
winter. When I see that a man neglects his
boat thus, I do not wonder that he fails in his
business. It is not only shiftlessness or un-
thrift, but a sort of filthiness to let things go to
wrack and ruin thus.
I still recall that characteristic winter evening
of December 9th. The cold, dry, and whole
some diet my mind and senses necessarily fed
on, — oak leaves, bleached and withered weeds
that rose above the snow, the now dark green of
AUTUMN. 437
the pines, and perchance the faint metallic chip
of a single tree sparrow ; the hushed stillness of
the wood at sundown, aye, all the winter day, the
short boreal twilight, the smooth serenity and
the reflections of the pond, still alone free from
ice ; the melodious hooting of the owl, heard at
the same time with the yet more distant whistle
of a locomotive, more aboriginal, and perchance
more enduring here than that, heard above all
the voices of the wise men of Concord, as if
they were not (how little he is Anglicized !),
the last strokes of the woodchopper, who pres
ently bends his steps homeward ; the gilded bar
of cloud across the apparent outlet of the pond,
conducting my thoughts into the eternal west,
the deepening horizon glow, and the hasty walk
homeward to enjoy the long winter evening.
The hooting of the owl ; that is a sound which
my red predecessors heard here more than a
thousand years ago. It rings far and wide, oc
cupying the space rightfully, — grand, primeval,
aboriginal sound. There is no whisper in it of
the Bulkeleys, the Flints, the Hosmers, who re
cently squatted here, nor of the first parish, nor
of Concord Fight, nor of the last town-meeting.
Dec. 15, 1859. Philosophy is a Greek word,
by good rights, and it stands almost for a Greek
thing, yet some rumor of it has reached the
commonest mind. M. Miles, who came to col-
438 AUTUMN.
lect his wood-bill to-day, said, when I objected
to the small size of his wood, that it was neces
sary to split wood fine in order to cure it well ;
that he has found that more than four inches in
diameter would not dry, and, moreover, a good
deal depended on the manner in which it was
corded up in the woods. He piled his high and
tight. If this were not well done, the stakes
would spread and the wood lie loosely, and so
the rain and snow find their way into it, and he
added, " I have handled a good deal of wood,
and I think that I understand the philosophy
of it."
Dec. 16, 1837. The woods were this morn
ing covered with thin bars of vapor, the evap
oration of the leaves, according to Sprengel,
which seemed to have been suddenly stiffened
by the cold. In some places it was spread out
like gauze over the tops of the trees, forming
extended lawns, where elves and fairies held
high tournament : —
" Before each van
Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears,
Till thickest legions close."
The east was glowing with a narrow, but ill-
defined crescent of light, the blue of the zenith
mingling in all possible proportions with the
salmon color of the horizon. And now the
neighboring hilltops telegraph to us poor crawl-
AUTUMN. 439
ers of the plain, the monarch's golden ensign in
the east.
How indispensable to a correct study of Na
ture is a percaption of her true meaning. The
fact will one day flower out into a truth. The
reason will mature and fructify what the under
standing had cultivated.
Dec. 16, 1840. Speech is fractional, silence
is integral.
Beauty is where it is perceived. When I see
the sun shining on the woods across the pond,
I think this side the richer which sees it.
The motion of quadrupeds is the most con
strained and unnatural ; it is angular and
abrupt, except in those of the cat tribe, where
undulation begins. That of birds and fishes is
more graceful and independent. They move
on a more inward pivot, the former by their
weight or opposition to nature, the latter by
their buoyancy or yielding to nature. Awk
wardness is a resisting motion, gracefulness is
a yielding motion. The line which would ex
press the former is a tangent to the sphere,
that which would express the latter a radius.
But the subtlest, most ideal, and spiritual mo
tion is undulation. It is produced by the most
subtle element falling on the next subtlest.
Rippling is a more graceful flight. If you con
sider it from the hilltop, you will detect in it
440 AUTUMN.
the wings of birds endlessly repeated. The two
waving lines which express flight seem copied
from the ripple. There is something analogous
to this in our most inward experience. In en
thusiasm we undulate to the divine spiritus, as
the lake to the wind.
Dec. 16, 1850. I noticed [last Sunday or the
14th] a bush covered with cocoons which were
artfully concealed by two leaves wrapped round
them, one still hanging by its stem, so that they
looked like a few withered leaves left dangling.
The worm, having first incased itself in another
leaf, for greater protection folded more loosely
around itself one of the leaves of the plant, tak
ing care, however, to incase the leaf-stalk and
the twig with a thick and strong web of silk.
So far from its depending on the strength of the
stalk, which is now quite brittle, the strongest
fingers cannot break it, and the cocoon can
only be got off by slipping it up and off the
twig. There they hang themselves secure for
the winter, proof against cold and the birds,
ready to become butterflies when new leaves
push forth.
The snow everywhere was covered with snow-
fleas, like pepper. When you hold a mass in
your hand, they skip and are gone before you
know it. They are so small that they go
through and through the new snow. Sometimes,
AUTUMN. 441
when collected, they look like some powder
which the hunter has spilled in the path.
Dec. 16, 1852. Observed the reflection of
the snow on Pine Hill from Walden extending
far beyond the true limits of a reflection quite
across the pond. Also, less obviously, of pines.
The sky overcast with thick scud, which in the
reflection, the snow ran into.
Dec. 16, 1853. The elms covered with hoar
frost seen in the east, against the morning light,
are very beautiful. These days, when the earth
is still bare and the weather is so warm as to
create much vapor by day, are the best for these
frost works.
Would you be well, see that you are attuned
to each mood of nature.
Dec. 16, 1859. A. M. To Cambridge, where
I read in Gerard's Herbal. His admirable
though quaint descriptions are to my mind
greatly superior to the modern more scientific
ones. He describes not according to rule, but
according to his natural delight in the plants.
He brings them vividly before you, as one who
has seen and delighted in them. It is almost
as good as to see the plants themselves. It sug
gests that one cannot too often get rid of the
assumption that is in our science. His leaves
are leaves ; his flowers, flowers ; his fruit, fruit.
They are colored and fragrant. It is a man's
442 A UTUMN.
knowledge added to a child's delight. Modern
botanical descriptions approach ever nearer to
the dryness of an algebraic formula, as x + y = a
love-letter. It is the keen joy and discrimina
tion of a child who has just seen a flower for
the first time, and comes running in with it to
his friends. How much better to describe your
object in fresh English words than in these con
ventional Latinisms ! He has really seen, and
smelled, and tasted, and reports his sensations.
Dec. 17, 1837. In all ages and nations we
observe a leaning towards a right state of things.
This may especially be seen in the life of the
priest, which approaches most nearly to that of
the ideal man. The druids paid no taxes, and
" were allowed exemption from warfare and all
other things." The clergy are even now a privi
leged class. In the last stage of civilization,
poetry, religion, and philosophy will be one, and
there are glimpses of this truth in the first.
Dec. 17, 1840. The practice of giving the
feminine gender to all ideal excellences personi
fied is a mark of refinement observable in the
mythologies of even the most barbarous nations.
Glory and victory even are of the feminine gen
der, but it takes manly qualities to gain them.
Man is masculine, but his manliness (virtus)
feminine. It is the inclination of brute force to
moral power.
AUTUMN. 443
Dec. 17, 1850. I noticed, when the snow first
came, that the days were very sensibly length
ened by the light reflected from the snow. Any
work which required light could be pursued
about half an hour longer, so we may well pray
that the ground may not be laid bare by a thaw
in these short winter days.
Dec. 17, 1851. The pitch-pine woods on the
right of the Corner road. A piercing cold after
noon ; wading in the snow. The pitch pines
hold the snow well. It lies now in balls on their
plumes, and in streaks on their branches, their
low branches rising at a small angle and meet
ing each other. A sombre twilight comes through
this roof of pine leaves and snow, yet in some
places the sun streams in, producing the stron
gest contrasts of light and shade.
The winter morning is the time to see in per
fection the woods and shrubs wearing their
snowy and frosty dress. Even he who visits
them half an hour after sunrise will have lost
some of their most delicate and fleeting beauties.
The trees wear their morning burden but coarsely
after midday, and it no longer expresses the
character of the tree. I observed that early in
the morning every pine needle was covered with
a frosty sheath, but soon after sunrise it was all
gone. You walk in the pitch-pine woods as
under a pent -house. The stems and branches of
444 AUTUMN.
the trees look black by contrast. You wander
zigzag through the aisles of the wood, where
stillness and twilight reign. I do not know but
a pine wood is as substantial and as memorable
a fact as a friend. I am more sure to come
away from it cheered than from those who are
nearest to being my friends.
Improve every opportunity to express yourself
in writing, as if it were your last.
When they who have aspired to be friends
cease to sympathize, it is the part of religion to
keep asunder.
To explain to a friend is to suppose you are
not intelligent of one another. If you are not,
to what purpose will you explain ?
One of the best men I know often offends me
by uttering made words, the very best words, of
course, most smooth and gracious and fluent, a
dash of polite conversation, a graceful bending,
as if I were Master Kingsley, of promising parts,
from the university. Oh, would you but be sim
ple and downright, would you but cease your
palaver. The conversation of gentlemen after
dinner, — no words are so tedious. Never a
natural or simple word or yawn. It produces an
appearance of phlegm and stupidity in me, the
auditor. I am suddenly the closest and most
phlegmatic of mortals, and the conversation
comes to naught.
A UTUMN. 445
My acquaintances sometimes wonder why I
will impoverish myself by living aloof from
this or that company, but greater would be
the impoverishment if I should associate with
them.
Dec. 17, 1853. While surveying in Lincoln,
to-day, saw a great many, may be a hundred, sil
very brown cocoons of some great moth, wrinkled
and flattish, on young alders in a meadow, three
or four inches long, fastened to the main stem
and branches at the same time, with dry alder
and fragments of fern leaves attached to and
partially concealing them.
Dec. 17, 1856. P. M. Cold, with a piercing
northwest wind and bare ground still. It is
pretty poor picking outdoors to-day. There 's
but little comfort to be found. You go stump
ing over bare frozen ground, sometimes clothed
with curly, yellowish, withered grass, like the
back of half-starved cattle late in the fall, now
beating this ear, now that, to keep them warm.
It is comparatively summer-like on the south
side of woods and hills.
When I returned from the south the other
day, I was greeted by withered shrub-oak leaves
which I had not seen there. It was the most
homely and agreeable object that met me. I
found that I had no such friend as the shrub
oak hereabouts. A farmer once asked me what
446 AUTUMN.
they were made for, not knowing any use they
served. But I can tell him that they do me
good. They are my parish ministers, regularly
settled. They never did any man harm that I
know. Now you have the foliage of summer
painted in brown. Go through the shrub oaks.
All growth has ceased, no greenness meets the
eye, except what there may be in the bark of
this shrub. The green leaves are all turned to
brown, quite dry and sapless, the little buds are
sleeping at the base of the slender shrunken
petioles. Who observed when they passed from
green to brown ? I do not remember the transi
tion. But these leaves still have a kind of life
in them. They are exceedingly beautiful in
their withered state. If they hang on, it is like
the perseverance of the saints. Their colors are
as wholesome, their forms as perfect as ever.
Now that the crowd and bustle of summer is
passed, I have leisure to admire them. Their
figures never weary my eye. Look at the few
broad scallops in their sides. When was that pat
tern first cut ? With what a free stroke the curve
was struck ! With how little, yet just enough,
variety in their forms ! Look at the fine bristles
which arm each pointed lobe, as perfect now as
when the wild bee hummed about them, or the
chewink scratched beneath them. What pleas
ing and harmonious colors above and below!
AUTUMN. 447
The smooth, delicately brown-tanned upper sur
face, acorn-color, and the very pale, some silvery
or ashy, ribbed under side. How poetically, how
like saints, or innocent and beneficent beings
they give up the ghost ! How spiritual ! Though
they have lost their sap, they have not given up
the ghost. Rarely touched by worm or insect,
they are as fair as ever.
Dec. 17, 1859. P. M. To Walden. I see on
the pure white snow what looks like dust for
half a dozen inches under a twig. Looking
closely I find that the twig is hardhack, and the
dust its slender, light-brown, chaffy-looking seed,
which falls still in copious showers, dusting the
snow, when I jar it, and here are the tracks of a
sparrow which has jarred the twig, and picked
the minute seeds a long time, making quite a
hole in the snow. The seeds are so fine that it
must have got more snow than seed at each pick.
But they probably look large to its microscopic
eyes. I see, when I jar it, that a meadow-sweet
close by has quite similar, but larger seeds.
This is the reason, then, that these plants rise
so high above the snow, and retain their seed,
dispersing it, on the least jar, over each succes
sive layer of snow beneath them ; or it is carried
to distant places by the wind. What abundance
and what variety in the diet of these small
graminivorous birds, while I find only a few
448 AUTUMN.
nuts still. These stiff weeds which no snow
can break down, hold their provender. What
the cereals are to men, these are to the spar
rows. The only threshing they require is that
the birds fly against their spikes or stalks. A
little further I see the seed-box, Ludwigia, full
of still smaller yellowish seeds. On the ridge,
north, is the track of a partridge amid the
shrubs. It has hopped up to the low clusters of
smooth sumac berries, sprinkled the snow with
them, and eaten all but a few. Also, here only,
or where it has evidently jarred them down
(whether intentionally or not, I am not sure),
are the large oval seeds of the stiff-stalked
lespedeza, which I suspect it ate with the sumac
berries. There is much solid food in them.
When the snow is deep, the birds can easily
pick the latter out of the heads, as they stand in
the snow.
Dec. 18, 1852. P. M. To Anursnack. Very
cold, windy day. Loring's Pond beautifully
frozen. (This the first skating.) So polished
the surface, I took many parts of it for water.
It was waved or watered with a slight dust,
nevertheless. Cracked into large squares, like
the faces of a reflector, it was so exquisitely
polished that the sky and dun-colored scudding
clouds, with mother-o'-pearl tints, were reflected
in it as in the calmest water. I slid over it
AUTUMN. 449
with a little misgiving, mistaking the ice before
me for water. Still the little ruby-crowned
birds about.
Dec. 18, 1856. 12 M. Start for Amherst,
N. H. A very cold day. Thermometer at eight
A. M., 8°, and I hear of others very much lower
at an earlier hour, 2° at 11.45. The last half
the route from Groton Junction to Nashua is
along the Nashua river mostly. This river looks
less interesting than the Concord. It appears
even more open, that is, less wooded (?). At
any rate, the banks are more uniform, and I
notice none of our meadows on it. At Nashua,
hire a horse and sleigh, and ride to Amherst,
eleven miles, against a strong northwest wind,
this bitter cold afternoon. At my lecture, the
audience attended closely, and I was satisfied.
That is all I ask or expect generally. Not one
spoke to me afterward, nor needed they. I have
no doubt they liked it in the main, though none
of them would have dared say so, provided they
were conscious of it. Generally, if I can only
get the ears of an audience, I do not care whether
they say they like my lecture or not. I think
I know as well as they can tell. At any rate,
it is none of my business, and it would be im
pertinent for me to inquire. The stupidity of
most of these country towns, not to include the
cities, is in their infantile innocence. Lectured
450 AUTUMN.
in basement (vestry) of the orthodox church,
and, I trust, helped to undermine it. I was
told to stop at the United States Hotel ; an old
inhabitant had never heard of it, but I found
the letters on a sign without help. It was the
ordinary, unpretending (?), desolate - looking
country tavern. The landlord apologized to me
because there was to be a ball there that night,
which would keep me awake, and it did.
Dec. 18, 1859. Rain. It rains but little
this afternoon, though there is no sign of fair
weather. It is a lichen day. The pitch pines
are very inspiriting to behold. Their green is
as much enlivened and freshened as that of the
lichens. It suggests a sort of sunlight on them,
though not even a patch of clear sky is to be
seen to-day. As dry and olive or slate-colored
lichens are of a fresh and living green, so the
already green pine needles have acquired a far
livelier tint, as if they enjoyed this moisture as
much as the lichens do. They seem to be lit up
more than when the sun falls on them. Their
trunks and those of trees generally, being wet,
are very black, and the bright lichens on them
are so much the more remarkable. Apples are
thawed now, and are very good. Their juice is
the best kind of bottled cider that I know.
They are all good in this state, and your jaws
are the cider press. The oak woods a quarter
AUTUMN. 451
of a mile off appear more uniformly red than
ever. The withered leaves, being thoroughly
saturated with moisture, are of a livelier color,
and they are not only redder for being wet, but
through the obscurity of the mist one leaf runs
into another, and the whole mass makes one
impression.
Dec. 19, 1837. Hell itself may be contained
within the compass of a spark.
Dec. 19, 1840. This plain sheet of snow which
covers the ice of the pond is not such a blank-
ness as is unwritten, but such as is unread. All
colors are in white. It is such simple diet to
my senses as the grass and the sky. There is
nothing fantastic in them. Their simple beauty
has sufficed men from the earliest times. They
have never criticised the blue sky and the green
grass.
Dec. 19, 1850. The witch hazel is covered
with fruit, and droops over gracefully, like a
willow, the yellow foundation of its flowers still
remaining.
Dec. 19, 1851. In all woods is heard now,
far and near, the sound of the woodchopper's
axe ; a twilight sound now in the night of the
year, as if men had stolen forth in the arctic
night to get fuel to keep their fires a-going.
The sound of the axes far in the horizon is
like the dropping of the eaves. Now the sun
452 AUTUMN.
sets suddenly without a cloud, and with scarcely
any redness following, so pure is the atmos
phere, only a faint rosy blush along the horizon.
Dec. 19, 1854. p. M. Skated half mile up
Assabet, and then to foot of Fair Haven Hill.
This is the first tolerable skating. I am sur
prised to find how rapidly and easily I get along,
how soon I am at this brook, or that bend in the
river, which it takes me so long to reach on the
bank or by water. I can go more than double
the usual distance before dark.
Near the island I saw a muskrat close by,
swimming in an open reach. He was always
headed up stream, a great proportion of the
head out of water, and his whole length visible,
though the root of the tail is about level with
the water. It is surprising how dry he looks, as
if that back was never immersed in the water.
Off Clamshell, I heard and saw a large flock of
Fringilla linaria over the meadow. Suddenly
they turn aside in their flight, and dash across
the river to a large, white birch, fifteen rods off,
which plainly they had distinguished so far. I
afterward saw many more in the Potter swamp
up the river. They were commonly brown, or
dusky above, streaked with yellowish white or
ash, and more or less white or ash beneath.
Most had a crimson crown or frontlet, and a
few a crimson neck and breast, very handsome.
AUTUMN. 453
Some, with a bright crimson crown, had clean
white breasts. I suspect that these were young
males. They keep up an incessant twitter
ing, varied from time to time with some mew
ing notes. Occasionally, for some unknown
reason, they will all suddenly dash away with
that universal loud note (twitter), like a bag of
nuts. They are busily clustered in the tops of
the birches, picking the seeds out of the catkins,
and sustain themselves in all kinds of attitudes,
sometimes head downwards, while about this.
Common as they are now, and were winter be
fore last, I saw none last winter.
Dec. 19, 1859. When a man is young, and
his constitution and body have not acquired
firmness, that is, before he has arrived at mid
dle age, he is not an assured inhabitant of the
earth, and his compensation is that he is not
quite earthy. The greater uncertainty of his
fate seems to ally him to a nobler race of be
ings, to whom he in part belongs, or with whom
he is in communication. The young man is a
demigod, he is but half here, he knows not the
men of this world, the powers that be. They
know him not. Prompted by the reminiscence
of that other sphere from which he has so lately
arrived, his actions are unintelligible to his
seniors. He bathes in light. He is interesting
as a stranger from another sphere. He really
454 AUTUMN.
thinks and talks about a larger sphere of exist
ence than this world. It takes him forty years
to accommodate himself to the conditions of this
world. This is the age of poetry. Afterward
he may be the president of a bank, and go the
way of all flesh. But a man of settled views,
whose thoughts are few and hardened like his
bones, is truly mortal, and his only resource is
to say his prayers.
Dec. 20, 1840. My home is as much of na
ture as my heart embraces. If I only warm my
house, then is that only my home. But if I
sympathize with the heats and colds, the sounds
and silence of nature, and share the repose and
equanimity that reign around me in the fields,
then are they my house, as much as if the kettle
sang and fagots crackled, and the clock ticked
on the wall.
I rarely read a sentence which speaks to my
muse as nature does. Through the sweetness
of his verse, without regard to the sense, I
have communion with Burns. His plaint es
capes through the flexure of his verses. It was
all the record it admitted.
Dec. 20, 1851. To Fair Haven Hill and
plain below. Saw a large hawk circling over a
pine wood below me, and screaming, apparently
that he might discover his prey by their flight.
Traveling ever by wider circles, what a symbol
AUTUMN. 455
of the thoughts ; now soaring, now descending,
taking larger and larger circles, or smaller and
smaller. It flies not directly whither it is
bound, but advances by circles, like a courtier
of the skies. No such noble progress ! How it
comes round, as with a wider sweep of thought !
But the majesty is in the imagination of the be
holder, for the bird is intent on its prey. Cir
cling and ever circling, you cannot divine which
way it will incline, till perchance it drives down
straight as an arrow to its mark. It rises higher
above where I stand, and I see with beautiful
distinctness its wings against the sky, primaries
and secondaries, and the rich tracery of the
outline of the latter (?),its inner wings or wing-
linings, within the outer, like a great moth seen
against the sky; a will-o'-the-wind, following
its path through the vortices of the air ; the
poetry of motion, not as preferring one place to
another, but enjoying each as long as possible,
most gracefully thus surveying new scenes, and
revisiting the old. How bravely he came round
one of those parts of the wood which he had not
surveyed, taking in a new segment, annexing
new territories. Without " Heave yo," it trims
its sail. It goes about without the creaking of
a block. That America, yacht of the air, that
never makes a tack, though it rounds the globe
itself ; takes in and shake out its reefs without
456 AUTUMN.
a flutter, its sky-scrapers all under its control ;
holds up one wing, as if to admire, and sweeps
off this way, then holds up the other, and sweeps
off that way. If there are two concentrically
circling, it is such a regatta as Southampton
waters never witnessed. Flights of imagina
tion ! Coleridgean thoughts ! So a man is said
to rise in his thought ever to fresh woods and
pastures new.
Red, white, and green, and in the distance
dark brown, are the colors of the winter land
scape. I view it now from the cliffs. The red
shrub oaks on the white ground of the plain
beneath make a pretty scene. Most walkers
are pretty effectually shut up by the snow.
It is no doubt a good lesson for the wood-
chopper, his long day in the woods, and he gets
more than his half-dollar a cord.
Say the thing with which you labor. It is a
waste of time for the writer to use his talents
merely. Be faithful to your genius. Write in
the strain that interests you most. Consult not
the popular taste.
A clump of white pines seen far westward
over the shrub-oak plain which is now lit up by
the setting sun, a soft feathery grove, with their
gray stems indistinctly seen, like human beings
come to their cabin door, standing expectant on
the edge of the plain, inspires me with a mild
AUTUMN. 457
humanity. The trees indeed have hearts. The
sun seems to send its farewell ray far and level
over the copses to them, and they silently re
ceive it with gratitude, like a group of settlers
with their children. The pines impress me as
human. A slight vaporous cloud floats high
over them, while in the west the sun goes down
apace behind glowing pines and golden clouds
which like mountains skirt the horizon. No
thing stands up more free from blame in this
world than a pine-tree.
The dull and blundering behavior of clowns
will as surely polish the writer at last, as the
criticism of men of thought.
Our country is broad and rich, for here within
twenty miles of Boston I can stand in a clear
ing in the woods, and look a mile or more over
the shrub oaks to the distant pine copses and
horizon of uncut woods, without a house or
road or cultivated field in sight.
Go out before sunrise, or stay out till sunset.
It is wonderful, wonderful, the unceasing de
mand that Christendom makes on you, that you
speak from a moral point of view. Though
you be a babe, the cry is, repent, repent. The
Christian world will not admit that a man has a
just perception of any truth unless at the same
time he cries, " Lord, be merciful to me, a sin
ner."
458 AUTUMN.
What made the hawk mount? Did he not
fill himself with air ? Before you were aware
of it, he had mounted by his spiral path into the
heavens.
Dec. 20, 1854. 9 A. M. To HiU. Said to be
the coldest morning as yet. The river appears
to be frozen everywhere. Where was water last
night, is a firm bridge of ice this morning. The
snow which has blown upon the ice has taken
the form of regular star-shaped crystals an inch
in diameter. Sometimes these are arranged
in the form of a spear three feet long, quite
straight. I see the mother-o'-pearl tints now at
sunrise on the clouds high over the eastern hori
zon, before the sun has risen above the low bank
in the east. The sky in the eastern horizon has
that same greenish, vitreous, gem-like appear
ance which it has at sundown, as if it were
of perfectly clear glass, with the green tint of
a large mass of glass. Here are some crows
already seeking their breakfast in the orchard,
and I hear a red squirrel's reproof. The wood-
choppers are hastening to their work afar off,
walking fast to keep warm, before the sun has
risen, their ears and hands well covered, the dry
cold snow squeaking under their feet. They
will be warmer after they have been at work an
hour. p. M. Skated to Fair Haven with C.
C's skates are not the best, and beside, he is
AUTUMN. 459
far from an easy skater, so that, as he said, it
was killing work for him. Time and again the
perspiration actually dropped from his fore
head upon the ice, and it froze in long icicles
on his beard. Yet he kept up his spirits and
his fun. It has been a glorious winter day ;
its elements so simple, the sharp, clear air, the
white snow everywhere covering the earth, and
the polished ice. Cold as it is, the sun seems
warmer on my back even than in summer, as if
its rays met with less obstruction. And then
the air is so beautifully still, not an insect in
it, hardly a leaf to rustle. If there is a grub
out, you are sure to detect it on the snow or
ice. The shadows of the Clamshell hills are
beautifully blue, as I look back half a mile at
them, and in some places where the sun falls on
it, the snow has a pinkish tinge.
INDEX.
ACADEMY of Natural Sciences, 302.
Acorn, 83, 84, 86, 87, 172, 173, 325.
Acquaintances, 433, 445.
Advantages, 390.
JEschylus, 21G, 217.
African seeds, 285.
Afternoon, 21, 28, 181, 182.
Alcott, Mr., 150.
Alder, 307.
Alternate reproduction, 107.
Amherst, N. H.,449.
Amusements, 178, 179, 180, 196.
Andrewsii, 35.
Andromeda, 391, 394, 413.
Andromeda Ponds, 290.
Andromeda Swamp, 391.
Andropogon scoparius, 117.
Anemone, 323, 324.
Antiquity, 267.
Ants, 211,275,280.
Anursnack, 206, 448.
Apple blossoms, 228.
Apples, 83, 95, 96, 134, 135, 212,
Ardea minor, 70, 78, 159.
Arrowheads, 84, 117, 120, 173, 174,
344.
Art, 89 ; works of, 9.
Arum berries, 25.
Asclepias cornuti, 50, 51.
Ash, 41.
Ash, black, 41.
Ash, white, 41, 210.
Ashes, 79.
Aspens, 57, 422.
Aspidium cristatum, 186.
Aspidium spinulosum, 186. See
Ferns.
Aspirations, 154.
Assabet, 89, 114, 137, 167, 193, 240,
250, 288, 310, 345, 408, 434, 452.
Associates, 320.
Aster, 42, 70, 79, 147.
Aster multiflorus, 29.
Aster tradescauti, 29.
Aster undulatus, 239, 318.
Atmosphere, 24, 248.
Aubreys, 349.
Author, 19.
Authorship, 164.
Autumn, 108, 248.
Autumn afternoons, 21, 28.
Autumnal tints, 16, 19, 55, 58, 79,
102, 110, 143, 147, 312.
BACON, leg of, 356.
Ball's Hill, 147, 373, 374.
Banks, Sir Joseph, 104.
Barberries, 136.
Bare Hill, 412.
Bark of trees, 199, 234, 235.
Barn, 332.
Barrett's Mill, 127, 186.
Bateman's Pond, 59, 199, 200,226.
Battle-ground, 370.
Bays, 357.
Baywings, 68.
Beanfield, 376.
Bear Garden, 400.
Beauty, 439.
Bee hunting, 42, 43, 44, 45.
Beech leaves, 198.
Beeches, 199.
Bees, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47.
Beggar ticks, 39, 53.
Bell, 97, 98, 362, 363.
Beomyces rosea, 422.
Berries, 26, 27, 136, 320.
Bible, 116.
Bidens, 38, 39, 53, 70.
Bidens connata, 239, 318.
Bigelow, 322.
Bigelow's " Plants of Boston and
vicinity," 386.
Billerica, 370, 372, 373.
Birch, 190, 191, 198.
Birch groves, 353.
Birch, white, 41.
Birches, 297, 310.
Birches, white, 29, 169, 220, 297.
462
INDEX.
Birches, yellow, 37, 148.
Birds, 13, 69, 70, 79, 80, 127, 190,
230, 252, 319, 400, 401, 413, 449.
Birds, collection of, 303.
Birds, diet of, 447, 448.
Birds, motions of, 252.
Birds' nests, 239.
Bittern, 70, 193, 199.
Bittern cliff, 392.
Blackberry leaves, 17.
Blackberry vines, !i9.
Blackbirds, 70, 88.
Blackfish, 402.
Blake, 240.
Bleat of sheep, 148.
Blood, Perez, 425.
Bloom, 213, 214, 368.
Blueberry buds, 283.
Blueberry bushes, 118, 413.
Blueberry twigs, 314.
Bluebirds, 28, 79, 80, 91, 192, 224.
Bluets, 37.
Boat, 355, 388, 389, 436.
Body, 56, 430, 431, 432.
Bones, 247.
Book of autumn leaves, 312.
Book: "A Week on the Concord
and Merrimack Rivers," 163,339.
Books, 303.
Books, Indian, 355.
Boomer, 70.
Boots, 378.
Botanists, 5.
Botany, 386, 387.
Boulder field, 35, 204, 234.
Boulders, 204, 205.
Box-trap, 85.
Boys and horse, 54.
Bradford, 401, 402.
Breams, 360, 361, 362.
British naturalists, 104.
Broker, 140.
Brook, 278.
Brooks, Abel, 341, 342.
Broom pods, 2.
Brown, Capt. John, 260, 277, 278,
290, 363, 382.
Brown creeper, 335.
Brown, Simon, 362.
Brown's, James P., Pond, 344, 257.
Buds, 283, 340, 364, 377.
Bull-frog, 23.
Bullocks, 305, 306.
Bumblebees, 42, 46.
Bunker Hill Monument, 71.
Burns, 454.
Business dealings, 274.
Buttercup, 217, 265, 318, 321.
Butterflies, 42, 197.
Button-bushes, 182.
Buttonwoods, 41.
Buttons, 122.
Byron, Lord, 398.
C., W. E., 18, 239, 357, 370, 458,
459.
Caddis-worms, 136, 137, 317.
Cambridge, 343, 349, 350, 441.
Canoe birch, 190, 191, 198.
Cape Ann, 4, 48.
Cardinal shore, 265, 407.
Carlisle road, 10, 12, 59, 134.
Cat, 36, 52, 180, 32^ 385.
Cat-birds' nests, 413.
Cato, 88.
Cat-owl, 7, 292, 293.
Cats, 422.
Cattle, 235, 259, 328.
Cattle on Sundays, 100.
Causeway, 429.
Cedar Hill, 426.
Cerastium, 318.
Cerastium viscosum, 283.
Change, 121.
Character, 252, 253, 350, 351.
Cheney's shore, 114.
Chestnut-tree, 123.
Chestnuts, 94, 95, 110, 113, 124, 144,
146, 404.
Chickadees, 69, 92, 95, 102-, 103, 114,
119, 187, 198, 210, 211, 226, 227,
229, 234, 335, 340, 365, 380,409,432.
Chickweed, 318.
Chipbirds, 68.
Chips, 341, 342.
Cholm
mondeley, 355.
Chords, 130.
Christ, 281, 380, 382, 383.
Christendom, 457.
Christians, 14.
Church, 281, 282, 284.
Church of England, 180.
Cicindela, 340.
Circus, 18.
Cistus, 426.
Clam, 250.
Clamshell, 21, 23, 28, 117. 156, 157,
199, 286, 304, 332, 352.
Clamshell bank, 21.
Clamshell Hill, 174, 376, 459.
Clamshell meadow, 157.
Clamshell reach, 17.
Clamshells, colors of, 376, 377.
Clark, Brooks, 134.
Cledonia, 324.
Clematis Virginiana, 228.
Clergy, 442.
Clethra, 233.
INDEX.
463
Cliffs, 17, 70, 97, 101, 152, 191. 257,
343, 364, 388, 422.
Clock, 57.
Clothes, 403.
Cloud, 96, 117, 257, 258, 269, 270,
294, 328, 358, 359, 406, 427, 428,
429, 437.
Clover, 198.
Clowns, 457.
Cobwebs, 183, 184, 185, 190, 381.
Cochituate, 230.
Cocks, 51, 52, 183, 319, 385.
Cocoanut, 203.
Cocoons, 440, 445.
Coincidences, 309.
Colburn farm woodlot, 335.
Cold, 52, 329, 445.
Color, 147, 158, 308, 359, 366, 367,
383, 384, 456.
Comet, 52, 74, 197.
Comfort, 327.
Committee, 362.
Common-sense, 217.
Communities, 126.
Companion, 235.
Conant's grove, 33.
Conant's meadow, 8.
Coiiantum, 7, 8, 33, 34, 66, 86, 126,
154, 169, 189, 256, 296, 308, 413.
Conantum Cliff, 8.
Concord River, 157.
Concord woods, 372.
Connecticut, 301.
Conversation, 444.
Copan, 347.
Corner spring, 66, 77 109.
Cornus florida, 221, 222.
Corydalis, 55.
Cottages, 398.
Country, 457.
Country tavern, 450.
Country towns, 449.
Cowpath, 371.
Cows, 72.
Cranberries, 183, 299.
Creeds, 365.
Cress, 311.
Cricket-frog, 27.
Crickets, 21, 22, 23, 28, 96, 181, 189,
230, 246, 256, 258, 276.
Crotalaria, 58.
Crowfoot, 297.
Crows, 333, 337, 347, 409, 458.
Crystallization, 434, 435.
Currency, 348.
DANDELION, 33, 79, 108, 189, 211,
239, 279, 318, 404.
Days ripened like fruits, 3.
Deafness, 268.
Deep cut, 17, 107.
Deer-mouse, 368.
Dennis's Hill, 83, 85.
De Quincey, 255.
Descriptions, 104, 105, 106.
Desmodium, 38, 39, 53.
Desmodium paniculatum, 38.
Desmodium rotundifolium, 38.
Desor, 297.
Dew, 300, 301.
Dicksonia fern, 10, 66, 125.
Diet, 378, 379.
Dipper, 30, 31, 290.
Discourse with nature, 55.
Discovery, 333.
Diver, Great Northern, 251, 252.
Dog, 90.
Dogwood, 16.
Domestication, 191.
Donati, 285.
Douglas, 266.
Doves, 191, 192, 270.
Down on plants, 307, 308, 314.
Drawings, 409, 410.
Dreamland, 309.
Dreams, 19,150, 151,175,176, 318, 343.
Driftwood, 131, 132, 139.
Druids, 442.
Ducks, 30, 31, 161, 169, 170, 371.
Dudley Pond, 239.
Dumb-bells, 94.
Duty, 10.
EAGLE Head, 4.
East India Marine Hall, 9.
Easterbrook, 2, 94, 134, 136.
Elephant, 193.
Elms, 41, 79, 99, 441.
Eloquence, 291, 292.
Emerson, Miss Mary, 264, 265.
Emerson, R. W., 362, 381, 382, 420,
421.
Emerson's Cliff, 18.
Emmonds, 372.
Employment, 425.
Encouragement, 383, 427.
English plants, 181.
Enjoyment, 316.
Entertainment, 81.
Enthusiasm, 36, 37.
Euphorbia heptagona, 419.
Evergreens, 234, 290.
Everlasting, 19, 48, 368.
Ex-plenipotentiary, 2.
Eye, 38, 56, 147.
FACES, 59.
Facts, 51, 189, 237.
464
INDEX.
Fair Haven. 182, 249. 335, 398, 404,
406, 432.
Fair Haven Bay, 222.
Fair Haven Hill, 39, 52, 80, 112, 239,
257, 261, 357, 358, 406, 423, 452,
454.
Fair Haven lot, 397.
Fair Haven Pond, 41, 53, 75, 101,
102, 113, 191, 309, 391, 394.
Fairies, 69, 71.
Falcons, 192.
Fall, 161.
Farmer, Jacob, 226, 227, 242, 336,
401.
Farmer, 365, 366, 375.
Farmer's life, 60, 61, 62, 316, 332.
Farmer's pleasure, 232.
Farming, 178, 179.
Feminine gender, 442.
Fern, climbing, 322, 354.
Fern, Dicksonia, 10, 66, 125.
Fern, sweet, 289, 307, 314, 397.
Fern tree, 20.
Ferns, 20, 24, 67, 68, 186, 187, 211.
Fields, 295, 377.
Finches, 189.
Fine days precious, 212.
Fire, 377, 432.
Fishermen, 75, 76, 139, 141.
Fishes, 362.
Fishing, 64, 65.
Fitchburg Railroad, 410.
Flannery, 295.
Flies, 42.
Flint's Bridge, 35.
Flint's Pond, 57, 92, 110, 142.
Flood, 232.
Flower cups, 433.
Flowers, 70, 79, 108, 318, 386.
Forest, 58.
Fossil turtle, 9.
Fox, 331, 400, 427.
Fragrance, 11.
Fragrant thoughts, 125.
Frame of landscape, 222, 223.
Friend, 91, 126, 129, 197, 206, 207,
389, 419.
Friends, 321, 322, 444.
Friendship, 118, 207.
Fringed gentian, 16, 94, 119, 206,
356.
Fringilla hiemalis, 17, 157, 383.
Fringilla linaria, 37, 452, 453.
Frogs, 186, 200.
Frost, 95, 426.
Frost weed, 154.
Frost work, 337, 338.
Fruits, 320, 321, 325.
Fuel, 140, 141, 142, 216, 241, 242,
342.
Fugitive slave, 49, 50.
Fuller, Margaret, 265, 421.
Fungus, 93, 104, 220.
Fungi, 218.
Furness, 302.
Furniture, 57.
GARDEN of Eden, 220.
Gavel, 61.
Geese, 146, 161, 231, 232, 250, 265,
269, 294, 312, 320, 327, 356, 357,
426, 427.
Genius, 217, 373.
Gentian, 16, 35, 94, 119, 206, 356.
Gentian Lane, 35.
Gentlemen, 133.
Gerard, 5, 106.
Gerard's Herbal, 441, 442.
Gerardia purpurea, 54, 70.
Gesta gallorum, 385.
Giant, 162.
Gloucester, 48, 49.
Glow-worms, 256, 257, 318, 340.
Gold, 294.
Golden eggs, 90.
Golden-rod, 42, 46, 70, 79, 152, 239,
318.
Goldfinches, 114.
Goodwin, John, 139, 140, 141, 215,
216, 251, 380.
Goose Pond, 328.
Gossamer, 183, 184, 185, 190, 277.
Grackles, 47, 68.
Granite, 100.
Grape Cliff, 38.
Grass, 118, 182, 189, 228, 246, 295,
368.
Grasshoppers, 197, 276.
Great Fields, 35, 58, 294.
Great Meadows, 79, 413.
Grebe, 290.
Greeley, 303.
Green mountains, 131.
Grisi, 303.
Grist-mill, 381.
Grossbeak, 415.
Ground nuts, 40.
Growth, 222.
HADEN'S, 152, 366.
Halo, 308.
Happiness, 280.
Hard times, 108.
Hardback seeds, 447.
Harper's Magazine, 300.
Harris, Dr., 340.
Harvest time, 109.
Hat, 386.
Hawks, 16, 29, 30, 192, 255,455,456,
456.
INDEX.
465
Hazel, 159, 315, 367.
Health, 296.
Hell, 451.
Hemlocks, 164, 165, 210, 211, 226,
240.
Hermann, 282.
Herons, 156, 193.
Heywood's Peak, 57.
Heywood's Pond, 411.
Hickesee, 349.
Hickories, 37, 65, 364.
Hieracium Canadense, 53.
Hill, 71, 346, 458.
HiUs, 371, 373.
Historical facts, 29.
Hoar frost, 338.
Holden swamp, 275, 391, 413.
Holden wood, 68.
Home, 454.
Homer, 380.
Homes, 60, 61.
Honey, 338.
Hooper, Harry, 223.
Hoosac mountains, 131.
Hop hornbeam, 159.
Horizon, 249.
Hornbeams, 364.
Hornets' nest, 15, 34.
Horse, 55.
Horse chestnuts, 173.
Hosmer, Mr. Edmund, 309.
Hosraer, Mr. Joseph, 267, 268, 299,
344.
Hosmer's field, 311.
Hosmer's meadow, 227, 277.
Hour variously spent, 242.
Houses, 34.
Houstonia, 37, 79, 198, 217.
Howell, Francis, 198.
Hubbard, Cyrus, 365.
Hubbard's bridge, 283, 391, 399.
Hubbard's Close, 328.
Hubbard's Grove, 108.
Hubbard's woods, 250, 255, 369.
Hubbardston, 131.
Huckleberries, 8, 79, 307.
Hylodes, 57, 144, 258, 319, 363.
Hypericum, 54, 210.
ICE, 316, 317, 384, 391, 407, 433, 434,
448.
Ice crystals, 408, 409, 435, 458.
Ice foliage, 339.
Ichthyolites, 32.
Illusion, 206, 207.
Imagination, 403.
Imaginings, 195, 196, 197.
Indian books, 355.
Indian gouge, 83, 84.
Indian mind, 148.
Indian relics, 173.
Indian summer, 102, 103, 110 181,
197, 226, 233, 290, 319, 325, 394,
408,423.
Indians, 297, 298, 344, 402.
Insane man, 381.
Inspection, 197.
Irishman, 402, 403.
JAY, 16, 73, 205, 206, 226, 229, 236,
245, 246, 279, 371.
Jenny's desert, 20.
John's-wort, 286.
Journal, 280.
Joy, 383.
Juniper repens, 39.
KALMIA glauca, 391.
Keyes, John, 362.
Kirby and Spence, 184, 185
Knowledge, 31, 38.
LABAUME, 288.
Labor, 298.
Lake Superior Indians, 297, 298.
LambkiH,' 35, 37.
Landscape, 80, 81, 191, 330, 364,
412.
Larks, 20, 68, 79, 199, 411.
Last words, 379.
Laurus sassafras, 86.
Law, 99, 100.
Leaves, 163, 200, 252, 259, 295, 312,
365, 391.
Leaves of oaks, 295, 367.
Leaves of trees, 88, 109.
Leaves, radical, 285, 286.
Lecture, 390, 391.
Lecturer, 449.
Ledum swamp, 115, 276.
Lee's Bridge, 7, 282.
Lee's Cliff, 37, 283, 396.
Lee's farm swamp, 85, 186.
Lee's hillside, 87.
Leisure, 260.
Le Jeune, 113.
Lespedeza, 307, 314, 448.
Lesson, 252.
Library, 350.
Lichens, 211, 213, 323, 324, 367, 450.
Life, 124, 146, 193, 219, 245, 319.
Life a failure, 347.
Life, springs of, 96, 400.
Life in winter, 100.
Life-everlasting, 70, 246, 279, 286.
Light, 98, 117, 120, 170, 171, 248,
256, 289, 307, 312, 345, 388.
Lily, 354.
466
INDEX.
Linaria Canadensis, 314.
Lincoln, 445.
Lincoln Bridge, 379, 404, 410, 411.
Lincoln Hills, 9.
Linnaeus, 273, 282, 285.
Linnets, 414.
Lion, 36.
Littorales, 294.
Living, 219.
Locust, 87.
Loon, 57, 251.
Loring's Pond, 448.
Lotus, 302.
Love, 272, 323.
Lover, 3.
Ludwigia, 448.
Luxuries, 333.
Lyceum lectures, 274, 275.
Lycoppdiums, 187.
Lygodium palmatum, 322, 354.
Lynx, 9.
Lynx, Canada, 39, 121, 347, 348.
MACHINE work, 129.
Magazines, 284.
Maiden, 217, 252.
Maiden-hair fern, 69.
Malthus, 304.
Man, 191, 192.
Man's nature, 419.
Man's worth, 303.
Manchester, 4.
Manners, 58, 65.
Maples, 8, 21, 28, 37, 41, 53, 57, 79,
89, 102, 148, 169, 297, 345.
Marlboro' road, 83, 84, 247.
Marsh-hawk, 21, 89, 171, 172, 306.
Martin, 192.
Maynard's, 315, 316.
Meadow grass, 169, 170.
Meadow-sweet, 447.
Meadows, 346.
Meander, 117.
Medeola berries, 25.
Melody, 298.
Melvin, 375, 380, 423.
Melvin's Preserve, 9.
Memorial book, 313.
Men, 153.
Merrick's pasture, 21, 35, 399.
Merrimack, 117.
Migration, 270.
Migratory birds, 156, 157.
Miles, C., 232.
Miles, Martial, 306, 437, 438.
Miles Swamp, 29, 275.
Milkweed, 143.
Mill, cobweb drapery of, 128.
Miller, Hugh, 32, 33.
Min, 385.
Ministerial lot, 292.
Ministerial Swamp, 19, 136, 304,
322.
Mink, 265, 266, 372, 401.
Minott, 55, 57, 61, 62, 63, 223, 226,
250, 255, 256, 355, 376, 380, 417,
418.
Minott, George, 309, 376.
Minott's house, 334, 335.
Mint, 148.
Mole crickets, 22, 27, 29.
Monadnock, 25, 26.
Moods, 209, 210.
Moon, 260.
Moonlight, 376.
Moore's Swamp, 57.
Moose, 193.
Moses, 281.
Moss, 169, 227, 234, 293, 324, 363,
364.
Motion, 439.
Mountain, 131, 176, 177.
Mountain ash, 16, 181.
Mountain peak, 25, 26.
Mountains, 130, 131, 143, 214, 215,
263, 264, 301.
Mouse, 297, 385.
Mouse-ear chickweed, 318.
Mulleins, 279.
Munroe, J. & Co., 163, 339.
Mus leucopus, 276.
Music, 35, 36, 97, 119, 120, 252, 291,
378.
Musical sand, 4.
Musketaquid, 117, 174, 193.
Muskrats, 371, 372, 373, 376, 452.
Muskrats' diet, 354.
Muskrats' houses, 77, 78, 79, 111,
116, 118, 218, 224, 225, 228, 239,
240, 249, 250, 251, 255.
Mussels, 78.
Myrtle birds, 137.
NAMES, 273.
Nashua river, 449.
Nature, 76, 77, 180, 212, 213, 234,
436, 454.
Nature, changes in, 204.
Nature genial to man, 315.
Nature, gradation in, 266.
Nature, home in, 258.
Nature the only panacea, 13.
Nature, phases of, 11.
Nature serene, 433.
Nature, success of, 415.
Nature's pensioners, 134, 135, 136.
Nawshawtuck, 3, 174, 198.
Neighbors, 169, 379.
New Bedford, 407.
New England, 402.
INDEX.
467
New England winter sunsets, 433.
Night, G9, 85, 159.
Night-shade, 47, 48.
Non-producers, 5, 6.
North America discovered, 30.
" North American Review," 404.
Northeast storm, 14G, 156.
Novelty, 195, 196.
November, 158, 183, 189, 191, 196,
233, 262, 269, 270, 295, 297, 314.
November afternoon, 261, 290, 307,
328.
November evening, 194, 195.
November in New England, 402.
Nut meadow, 409.
Nuthatch, 236, 335, 369, 370, 388,
389, 435.
OAK, black, 114, 148, 346.
Oak leaves, 59, 114, 122, 204, 297,
308, 345, 346, 364, 384, 436, 451.
Oak, red, 114, 148, 201, 202.
Oak, scarlet, 114.
Oak, white, 114, 138, 139, 148, 346.
Oak wood, 236, 346.
Oaks, 37, 146, 169, 315, 323, 373.
Oar, 147.
Obstacles, 159.
October, 143, 312.
Old shoes, 399.
Olive oil, 338.
Order or system, 106.
Osmundas, 66.
Otters, tracks of, 392, 393, 408.
Out-doors, 212.
Owls, 86, 165, 166, 167, 168, 405,
437.
Owl's nest, 275.
Oxen, 366.
Oyster, 398.
PAGODA, 18.
Pails, 128, 129.
Panicum crus-galli, 23.
Panicum filiforme, 23.
Panicum sanguinale, 23.
Partridge, 229, 231, 293, 352, 388,
409, 413, 448.
Partridge berries, 311.
Partridge berry leaves, 279.
Party, 267, 268.
Passenger pigeon, 30.
Peabody, 70.
Pears, 6, 95, 96.
Peculiarity, 418.
Pelagii, 294.
Pelham's Pond, 111.
Pencils, 299, 300.
Pennyroyal, 399.
Pestle, 344.
Peterboro' Hills, 263.
Philadelphia, 302.
Philosophy, 437, 438.
Phosphorescent wood, 63, 64, 74.
Pickerel, 183, 278.
Pickerel fisher, 396.
Picture-frame, 204, 205, 406.
Pigweed, 23.
Pilgrims, 39, 401.
Pine Hill, 58, 110, 212, 214, 328, 330,
354.
Pine log, 355.
Pine needles, 18, 115, 401.
Pine roots and knots, 399.
Pine warblers, 68.
Pine wood, 109, 309, 346, 419, 443,
444.
Pines, 37, 57, 146, 148, 192, 193, 226,
283, 343, 419.
Pines, pitch, 53, 87, 109, 139, 152,
443, 450.
Pines, white, 52, 109, 191, 198, 247,
256, 312, 314, 353, 456, 457.
Pitch-pine cones, 269, 306.
Pitcher plant, 33, 34, 275, 283.
Plants, 70, 386, 387.
Pliny, 274.
Ploughing, 243, 244.
Ploughman, 305.
Plymouth plantation, 401.
Poet, 192, 204, 304, 319, 322.
Poetry, 360.
Poetry, ancient Scotch, 261.
Poetry, English, 349.
Poet's life, 161, 162.
Poet's thoughts, 294.
Politics, 244.
Polygonum articulatum, 20.
Polygonum aviculare, 198.
Polygonums, 84.
Polygula sanguinea, 108.
Polypody, 199, 200, 201, 220, 221.
Pond, 237, 357, 383, 396, 404, 405.
Pontederia, 239, 240.
Poplar Hill, 79, 102, 215.
Poplars, 37.
Populus grandidentata, 41, 312.
Populus tremuloides, 354, 364.
Porter, Commodore, 321.
Potatoes, 219, 220, 287.
Potentilla argentea, 239, 318.
Potentilla Canadensis, 35.
Poverty, 265.
Pratt, Minott, 356.
Prayer, 100, 369.
Preacher, 281, 284.
Preaching, 283, 284.
Presents, 220.
Priest, 442.
Primrose, 286.
468
INDEX.
Prinos berries, 53, 233.
Prinos verticillata, 297.
Prosperity, 13.
Providence, 390.
Public opinion, 94.
Puffballs, 71, 72.
Puffer, 380.
Pyramids, 303.
QUAIL, 401.
Questions, 122.
RABBIT, 85, 86, 187, 293, 324, 325,
336, 413.
Railway journeys, 301, 302.
Rainbow, 257.
Rana palustris, 11, 27.
Rana sylvatica, 11.
Ranunculus bulbosus, 305.
Ranunculus repens, 79, 239, 318.
Redpolls, 404, 413-416.
Redwings, 47, 68.
Reflections, 406, 412, 434, 441.
Reflections in water, 183, 199, 202,
238, 319, 373, 374.
Regrets, 260.
Reminiscence, 153, 154.
Repentance, 411.
Rhexia, 53.
Rice, 286, 287, 288, 380.
Richardson, 376, 380, 397.
Ripe, 259.
Rising generation, 223.
River, 7, 111, 112, 119, 147, 157, 160,
182, 1 83, 190, 249, 283, 339, 370, 371,
372, 384, 388, 389, 400, 434, 458.
River scenery, 8.
Robin, 198.
Rocks, 201, 211,274.
Roots, 354, 355.
Rose, 422.
Routine, 416.
Ruskin, 180.
Ruskin's " Modern Painters," 76.
8 , a poor boy, 402, 403.
Sabbath, 281.
Safford, 162,
Saffron-Walden, 376.
Salamander, 390.
Sanborn, 426.
Sand, 98.
Sand banks, 108.
Sarracenia purpurea, 33.
Sassafras, 86, 88.
Saw Mill Brook, 24, 209, 210, 310.
Science, 105, 131, 361, 374.
Science, man of, 221.
Scott's " Lady of the Lake " quoted,
254.
Screech-owl, 5, 86, 165, 166, 167,
168.
Seasons, 74, 154, 157, 158, 289, 432.
Second Division Brook, 136.
Seeds transported by birds, 2.
Selectmen, 363.
Salf knowledge, 182.
Sentences, 254.
Serenity, 270.
Shad-bush, 103, 227, 228.
Shad frogs, 79. '
Shakespeare, 161, 380.
Shattuck, 376.
Shells, 294.
Shepherd's purse, 318, 394.
Shiners, 58, 59.
Shrub oak, 309, 314, 345, 368, 369,
397, 445, 446, 456.
Shrub oak leaves, 87, 327, 367, 383,
445, 446, 447.
Shrub oak plain, 17, 102, 308, 456.
Shrubs, buds on, 393.
Shrubs reflected, 82, 83.
Side-saddle flower, 33.
Side view, 221.
Sight, 195.
Silence, 435, 439.
Sin, 260, 291.
Skating, 391, 394, 395, 400. 452, 458.
Skeleton, 374.
Skies, 285.
Skinner, 340.
Skins, 393.
Skunk cabbage, 187, 188, 189, 398.
Sky, changes of, 428, 429.
Small things, 83.
Smith's Hill, 24, 25, 404.
Smoke, 59, 60, 61, 79, 102, 272, 315.
Snake, 22, 23, 87.
Snapdragon, Canada, 113.
Snapping turtle's eggs, 285.
Snipes, 157, 159.
Snow, 113, 158, 230, 243, 346, 317,
318, 323, 324, 398, 443, 451.
Snowbirds, 328, 366.
Snow-buntings, 227, 347, 409, 423,
424.
Snow-fleas, 161, 183, 394, 409, 440.
Snowstorm, 341, 359.
Social virtues, 144.
Society, 401, 419.
Solanum, dulcamara, 23, 24.
Solidago caesia, 46.
Solidago speciosa, 54.
Solomon's seal, 25.
Song-sparrow, 79, 407.
Sortes Virgilianse, 421.
Sounds, 101.
Space, 407.
Spanish book, 212.
INDEX.
409
Sparrows, 23, 68, 70, 126, 127, 157,
158, 189, 230, 305, 328, 407.
Spear-head, 372.
Species, 298.
Speculations, 394.
Speech, freedom of, 284.
Spencer, Brook, 59.
Spiders, 133, 184, 185, 186, 275.
Spine, 419.
Sprague, 308.
Sprengel, 438.
Spring, 91, 159, 160, 370, 371.
Spring, a second, 35, 144, 279, 319.
Spruce swamp, 413.
Squash, 6.
Squirrel, 73, 74, 155, 211, 230, 231,
236, 299, 352, 353, 369, 458.
Star, 159, 336.
Statements, 188, 189.
Stellaria media, 318.
Stillness, 228, 229, 405.
Still water, 111, 120.
Stranger, 144.
Stream, ascent and descent of, 202,
203.
Stumps, 169, 215, 216.
Succory, 20, 53, 108.
Sudbury, 314, 316.
Sudbury men, 316.
Sumac, 16, 448.
Summer, 394.
Summer duck, 240, 241.
Sun, reflected heat of, 22.
Sunlight, 289.
Sun-sparkles, 229.
Sunset, 3, 17, 90, 112, 152, 214, 259,
311, 327, 330, 331, 345, 388, 429.
Sunsets, New England winter, 433.
Superstition, 421, 425.
Swallow, 192, 242, 243.
Swallow holes, 383.
Swallows' nests, 304.
Swamp, 33, 186, 187, 231, 232, 331,
387, 425.
Swamp Bridge Brook, 174, 319.
Swamp pink, 233, 283, 364, 413.
Swamp pyrus, 233, 413.
Sweetbriar, 86.
Sweet fern, 289, 307, 314, 397.
Sword, 9.
Syriaca, 143.
TAHATAWAN, 174, 360.
Tansy, 108, 239, 268, 294, 318, 422.
Tarbell's, 332, 371.
Tastes, 155.
Tears, 248.
Teeth, 381.
Telegraph harp, 107.
Tent, 18.
Thanksgiving afternoon, 331.
Theme, 124, 125.
Theophrastus, 274.
Therien, 250.
Thhnbleberry shoots, 213, 330, 368.
Thinking. 280.
Thistles, 149.
Thoughts, 158, 212, 262, 333, 334.
Thoughts, old ruts of, 12, 418.
Threshing, 61.
Ticks, 38, 39.
Tiger, 316.
Toad-flax, 314.
Tools, 287.
Tortoise, 3, 79, 412.
Touch-me-not seed vessels, 24.
Tournefort, 282.
Towns, 367.
Tracks, 384, 385, 408.
Trade, 140.
Trail, 341.
Travel, 304.
Tree fern, 20.
Tree, injury to, 145.
Tree sparrows, 103, 181, 199, 328,
340, 383, 401, 413.
Treetoads, 153.
Trees, 210, 222, 338, 377, 379.
Trees, character of, 41.
Trees, dead, 431.
Trichostema dichotomum, 399.
Truth, 189, 203, 218, 260, 422.
Turnips, 311.
Turtle-dove, 25.
Twilight, 374, 412.
UNCANNOONUC, 243.
Undulations. 439, 440.
VALOR, 342, 343.
Valparaiso squash, 321.
Values, 348, 349.
Vanessa Antiopa, 197.
Vapor, 107, 428, 429, 438.
Varro, 148.
Verses, 223, 224, 253, 297, 351, 352.
Vestiges of creation, 33.
Vice an aid to success, 1.
Viola lanceolata, 57.
Viola ovata, 79, 108.
Viola pedata, 230, 237.
Violet, hood-leaved, 35.
Violets, 35, 237, 279, 422.
Virgin's Bower, 228.
Visiting, 65, 386.
WACHUSETT, 131, 354, 359.
Walden, 57, 110, 152, 209,327,354,
357, 360, 3G5, 399, 400, 436, 441,
447.
470
INDEX.
Walden in Essex, 376.
Walden Pond, 37, 42, 82, 83, 214,
226, 253, 380.
Walk, 235, 328, 329.
Walking, 328, 329.
Walnuts, 148, 173.
Ware, Dr., Jr., 208, 209.
Wasps, 42.
Water, 160, 373.
Water bugs, 95.
Water the centre of landscape, 102.
Water, colors of, 152.
Waterloo, 6.
Weather, 92, 93, 225, 269, 314,343.
Weeds, 6.
" Week on the Concord and Merri-
mack Rivers," 163.
Weird Dell, 358.
Well Meadow Brook, 283.
Well Meadow Field, 358.
Weston, Mr., 326.
Whale, 193.
Wheeler's pasture, 305, 307.
Wheeler's Owl wood, 358.
Whippoorwill, 70.
White mountains, 71.
White pine needles, 18.
White Pond, 108.
White-weed, 113.
Wild apples, 212.
Wild-cat, 340.
Wild flowers, 7.
Wild pig, 313, 314.
Williams, Henry, 49.
Williams, Oliver, 223.
Willow Bay, 115.
Willow catkins, 297.
Willows, 182, 184, 354.
Wind, 35, 71, 253, 330, 332.
Wind, self-registering, 208.
Window, 214, 337, 338, 354.
Winter, 158, 161, 244, 249, 346, 395,
396, 415, 416.
Winter, love for, 389.
Winter day, 459.
Winter eve, 406.
Winter evening, 436, 437.
Winter morning, 443.
Winter scenes, 125, 324, 326, 357,
358, 359.
Winter sky, 389.
Winter walk, 427.
Winter weather, 332.
Wisdom, 36, 317.
Wise, the balloonist, 428.
Wishes, 420.
Witherel Glade, 117, 277.
Wolves, 336, 337.
Women, 265, 267.
Woodbine, 29.
Wood-choppers, 293, 388, 405, 407,
437, 451, 456, 458.
Woodchuck, 69.
Woodcock, 159, 310, 311.
Wooden trays, 128, 129.
Wood-lot, 379, 417, 418.
Wood-path, 366.
Woodman, 293.
Woodpecker, 407, 409, 432.
Woods, 85, 203, 204, 271, 326, 397.
Woods, drama in, 279.
Words, 207.
Wordsworth, 293.
World, beauty of, 416, 417.
Wormwood, 368.
Writer, 456.
Writing, 331, 444.
Wyman, John, 223.
YARROW, 108, 211, 239, 268, 294, 318.
Young men, 453, 454.
Youth, 322.
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